


Killshot

by Qroatoan



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Backstory, Depression, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Minor canon divergence, POV Alternating, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-09 19:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10419294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qroatoan/pseuds/Qroatoan
Summary: An alternating perspective that follows the young RJ MacCready after leaving Little Lamplight, and before he was the sassy Merc we all know and love. Then the Pre-War lawyer/housewife, Nora, who is thrown into a broken world with no family to turn to. When their paths cross, the reluctant friends learn that it'll take the two most broken souls in the Wasteland to mend the Commonwealth's problems...and each other.





	1. You Deserve It

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!   
> I'm new here and just writing for my own amusement (And for the love of fandoms).   
> I just wanted to explore MacCready's backstory, even if his relationship with Lucy is slightly off-canon.   
> So, without further ado...

 

MacCready - Post-War Wastelands - December 16, 2283

 

      There’s one thing every low-life scoundrel of the Wastelands can agree on. Nothing stinks quite like the irradiated blood of feral ghouls. 

      A young man scrunches his nose in disgust as he observes the gooey blood on his forearms. He tries smearing it onto the ends of his tan coat, but the congealed mess clings to his arms. Feral blood dries slower than a smooth-skin human’s too. He hadn’t dropped any ferals since the small pack at the entrance of the subway a few hours ago, but the gooey blood was still wet and stinking. 

      Accepting that he’d be covered in the nasty stuff until they get back to the surface, the young man lets his bloody arms hang loosely at his sides and he continues walking through the long-abandoned subway. He absently kicks some rusted cans from his path, sending an an echo against the rounded walls of the subway. The woman behind him to jumps at the noise and the infant boy in her arms begins a harsh cry. The woman whines, irritated, and stomps toward the young man, practically shoving the baby into his feral-blood-gummed arms. 

      The young father says nothing in response and cradles the infant against his chest with one arm, slipping the straps of his pack and rifle off the opposite shoulder to rest them on the ground. He kneels as he does so, talking quietly to console the infant––but it’s no use. The baby is hungry and exhausted and the young father is even more so.  

      The woman slumps against the dirty subway wall; she looks like a child on the verge of a tantrum. She rubs her sore eyes with sweaty, shaky palms. 

      The couple appears aged by malnourishment and abuse, but certain features reveal their true youth. The fair-haired young man has a boyish––yet gaunt––face, lightly dusted with freckles, and a wispy shadow of pubescent facial hair shadows his developing jawline. The young woman’s face is round with a youthful fullness that the Wastelands leaches from the face of any adults over twenty. These two are only about seventeen or eighteen. 

      The baby is less than two, probably just now eating solid food. Children grow up fast in the Wastelands––they have no choice. 

      Despite the hunger and exhaustion shared between them, the young father finally manages to calm the infant’s crying spell. As he stands, turning slowly in circles, rocking the baby, the the young father feels a cool breeze drift across his face. It has been a cold night throughout the subway, but he hadn’t felt fresh wind move through until now. 

      He squints and notices moonlight glowing through the top of a staircase at the end of the tunnel. 

      The young father speaks to the woman without facing her, “We’re near the exit. I guess I cleared all the ferals out, so we can rest here tonight.”

      The woman lets her hands fall from the ritualistic rubbing of her eyes, but she makes no other response. 

      She is angry with him and he knows that he deserves it. He’s trying his damn best to keep them safe, but he still deserves it. He shrugs, feeling nothing in response to her silent treatment He has been angry with her for months; it was about time he’d done something stupid to even the playing field. A gnarly lie may have been a little uncalled for, but…she’s always known he is a dishonest asshole anyway. 

      Her irritation doesn't bother him. There isn’t much that can bother him since leaving Little Lamplight––the only place that made any sort of since out here. _Nothing makes sense anymore,_ the young man thinks, _You just roll with the punches_. 

      Still rocking the baby, the young father observes the remnants of a campfire and a mattress on the dirty subway floor. Judging by the rust on the cans and the puff of dust from the tattered mattress when he nudges it with his foot, this little camp has been long deserted.

      A wave of hunger pains makes the young father’s eyes well up and his sore arms throb with the baby’s limp wight. Exhaustion inhibits everyone differently in the Wastelands. In the young father’s case, exhaustion ebbs every emotion but anger and disappointment. Needless to say, he’s really not a comforting pillar for the distraught. These days, the baby is the only thing keeping him from singing a whisky lullaby and kissing this broken world goodbye. 

      He examines some cold ash in a half-assed fire pit a few feet from the mattress. It’d been cold underground all day, but the temperature drop tells him that it’s going to be an even colder night. Plus, if there are any more feral squatters hiding in the subway, a fire might deter them. He pokes at old char in the pit; it is cold and has hardened over time; it won’t burn well. He has to find something for tinder. 

      The young father walks over to the woman slumped against the wall and gently places the infant in her lap.

      He checks his pocket for matches. 

      Luck. 

      Still a full box.

      He uses one to light a cigarette, and takes a quick draw, unsatisfied.

      “There’s an old mattress…” he says flatly, gesturing to the tattered dusty lump on the ground, “you and Duncan can sleep there. I’m going to find something to get a fire going.”

      The woman fiddles with the babe’s swaddling, attempting to hide the involuntary shakes in her hands. The young father notices them anyway. 

      As usual, she seems on the verge of tears. 

 _Again._ The young man thought. _She’s going to cry at me again._

      The Wasteland breaks everyone in their own due time. Her number just came up early. She and the young man had packed up and left the safety of Little Lamplight at sixteen. The Wasteland has been snapping at their heels ever sense. It wasn’t long after the brith of Duncan that the Wasteland finally got to her––broke her…The young man thinks back, struggling to pinpoint exactly what did her in, but hunger and exhaustion hazes his memory.

      When she speaks, her voice is tight, “We have been walking for three days, Rob. Do you even _know_ where the Commonwealth starts?” she whines. 

      He sighs, “The Wasteland is huge, Lucy. I _know_ that the Commonwealth is north and that we’ve been heading north. We’ll get there eventually.” 

      Robert watches tears develop over the redness in her eyes. He is shamefully unmoved by her pain.

      Lucy’s tears gain enough mass to begin rolling down her cheeks. Robert knows what is coming. He is too hungry and too tired to handle another crying spell from both the woman and the baby, so he unzips his pack and retrieves a mostly-empty bottle labeled _MED-X._

      Lucy gawks at the bottle with greedy eyes. 

      “There’re only three hits left––four if you ration it––we won’t have enough to hold you over for the whole trip…but your shakes are getting worse,” he speaks with a clinical tone, digging through his bag for a syringe. He hates feeding her sick habit, but with no Addictol, no Caps, and no stamina to fight the withdrawals…Robert draws a dose through a dirty needle and Lucy rolls up her torn sleeve. 

      Robert winces as she reveals the track marks on her arm. 

      “Damn, Luce, you know I fucking hate this habit, right?” he complains as he takes the baby and hands her the dosed syringe. 

      She closes her eyes and releases a heavy sigh when the Med-X hits a vein. Robert can feel the memory of the woman he once loved fade with every fix. 

      After a moment, Lucy opens her eyes slowly and looks at Robert. Her eyes are big, brown, and still wet from tears that haven’t dried since they left the Capitol Wasteland three days ago. Even after the drug-fix, Robert can see the anger behind her big brown eyes. He still knows that he deserves it. Even though he’s trying his damn best. He knows. 

      But Robert doesn’t know which angry Lucy he likes better: the one shaking weakly from withdrawals or the one high and numb as a kite on Med-X. 

      Lucy stares absently into Robert’s blue eyes, which stare back.

      She blinks slowly and takes a shaky breath. 

 _Here it comes_ , thinks Robert, reminding himself that he is trying his damn best, but he still deserves it. 

      When Lucy finally speaks, her tone is drug-slurred-poison; “Well, sorry to disappoint you, Prince Charming. I didn’t realize an honest junkie like myself was so far beneath a heartless, greedy, _lying Mercenary.”_ Her eyes haven’t even started drying from earlier, yet they are flooding again with salty tears. She is starting to feel the sedation effects of Med-X by the time she slobbers out another string of angry banter, “How could you lie to _us?_ I am your wife, asshole. Duncan is our baby. You think this––being a sad, dependent junkie––was my choice? I didn’t choose this, Rob––I chose you…you were my _hero––_ you were going to keep us safe from all this––“ Lucy flails her hands to emphasize the filth around them, “I trusted you once. 

      But you’re not him anymore.”

      She spits the last part at him; he tries to absorb her words––to let them hurt, but she isn’t that same anymore either. He feels nothing for this broken, slobbering woman on the floor of a Wasteland subway. Her words do not hurt him and they cannot add fullness to his empty stomach. 

      Lucy cries loudly now, her words are forced, sloppy, and fractured. 

      “We were supposed to b-be…heroes. You–you promised we would h-help people. Why did you lie––when did _you_ break?” 

      Robert doesn’t know what to say. 

 _I don’t know when…_ he thinks, _but I do know,_ _I deserve it, Lucy._

      He feels silent tears roll from his own eyes. But he isn’t sad. 

      He cries because she is right and he is angry, and because he, Lucy, and every other godforsaken soul in the Wasteland deserves it. He stares blankly at his slobbering wife.

_I deserve it, Lucy…and you deserve it…we broke._

      Robert feels…so tired. 

      He hears himself speak involuntarily, his voice nothing more than a crackling squeak, “When did _the world_ break…?” 

      Lucy’s cries soften as the Med-X eases her into sedation. She falls asleep against the subway wall. 

      Robert never builds that fire. 

      He collapses on the old tattered mattress with Duncan in his feral-blood caked arms and sleeps harder than he ever will again.

 


	2. I Am Afraid

 

Nora - Pre-war Massachusetts - October 23, 2077

 

It has been a bit too long since the man has shaved properly. He can hear the razor pricking at dark stubble has he smoothes it over his handsome jawline. His charming voice reverberates off the bathroom walls as he rehearses his speech to the mirror; 

“Years of consumption lead to shortages of every major resource. The entire world unraveled. Peace became a distant memory. It is now the year 2077. We stand on the brink of total war…and I am afraid. For myself, for my wife, for my infant son––because if my time in the army taught me anything, it’s that war, war never changes.” 

The man sighs, rinses his now clean shaven face in the sink, and dries off with a cloth. He smiles as a young woman enters the bathroom behind him. She is small, dark haired, pretty. 

“Good morning, beautiful,” says the man, turing and wrapping muscled arms around the woman. 

She replies with a groggy but happy “mornin’ handsome” and leans onto her toes to peck his lips.

She laughs into the kiss, recognizing the overwhelmingly sweet taste of pure sugar found in his favorite breakfast cereal. 

“Hmmm…you had Sugar Bombs for breakfast,” she muses against his sweet lips.

“You guessed right,” he laughs, “hey, Codsworth is making coffee––“ He mimics the robot’s English accent––“‘Brewed to perfection!’ You want me to pour you a cup?” 

 The woman giggles, pulls him against her, and kisses him again, enjoying the tasty sweetness. 

“You spoil me, darling.” She says, releasing him. 

He gives her a peck in the forehead. “Because I love you, Nora,” he says, then trots happily toward the kitchen. 

“I love you too, Nate!” She yells down the hall.

Nora turns, smiling, back to the mirror. Nate is happy with her and she knows that she deserves it. The world may be headed straight for total atomic annihilation, but they are trying their damn best and they deserve happiness. 

Nora looks into the mirror and she considers the woman smiling back. It shows a young woman, about twenty-six years; she’s short, but not petite––womanly; she has pale skin, dark hair, and big brown eyes. She has a full, youthful face, but the blue tint under her eyes alludes to the many hours and long nights she has spent working toward her law degree. Her smile is slightly crooked, but it’s cute and it’s genuine, causing a slight dimple in the left cheek. 

She is happy––scared to death of losing it––but she’s still happy. 

Nora slips her robe off and steps into the shower.  The water is warm and reviving. As she runs her hands through a tangle behind her ear, she contemplates how she’ll style it for the midday event. Nate is giving a speech at the Veterans Hall Memorial today. “War Never Changes,” he’d titled it. He practiced it for her last night. 

_“I am afraid…”_ Nora remembers him saying in the closing lines. She feels a tightness in her chest at the thought of those words…those true words. There’s no fear greater than the fear of losing those you love, and Nora loves deeply. 

_Me too._ Nora thinks. _I am afraid too, Nate._

 

“Wahhhh–Ahhh–uhhhh-ahhhh!” A baby’s cry snaps Nora to attention and she almost loses her footing on the soapy shower floor. 

“Master Nate? Miss Nora? I believe the young Shaun requires parental attention,” announces the startled English-accented voice of Codswroth, the house-keeping robot known as a Mr. Handy. 

“Coming, Codsworth!” Nora hears Nate yell from the kitchen, “Don’t worry, babe. I got it.” He says to Nora as he passes the bathroom. 

Shaun’s crying ceases when Nate makes it to the nursery. Relieved, Nora rinses the rest of the shampoo out of her hair, then dries off, pulls on a plain navy dress, and joins her boys in the nursery.

Nate is cradling Shaun in his arms, bouncing the baby up and down. Nora admires the peaceful scene. Her husband is tall, with wide shoulders, dark hair, and tan skin. He has been home from the war for only a month and his military physique is still present and brooding. The infant boy looks so tiny in her husband’s strong arms. Nora feels butterflies skip through her at the sight. She is so in love. 

“Shh, shh, shh…hey, there’s your mama,” Nate mumbles to the baby. 

“How are my two handsome men this morning, hmm?” Nora asks, leaning forward to kiss Shaun’s head.

“Heres loving you, darling. Hey, I was wondering if we could stop by the park after breakfast? The weather is perfect and the ceremony isn’t until later,” Nate asks.

“Yeah, sounds like fun.” Nora says, optimistically, but something is pulling her heartstrings askew. Nate is right; the weather is perfect today. In fact, the whole morning is starting out perfectly. 

Nora has never been a pessimist, but with the conditions of the world…She is too in love and too happy to not be terrified of losing this perfect day. In this moment, she wants so badly for time to freeze. Hell, she prays for it. 

She smiles, closes her eyes, and whispers, “Oh, to be frozen in this moment, amen.” 

A sudden *PAH PAH PAH* from the front door brings Nora back to reality. 

“I got it,” she sighs.  

Nora trots past the kitchen and opens the door to a thin, mousy man in a tan coat and a derby cap. He is holding a clipboard and practically vibrating with nervous energy. 

“Good morning, miss! Vault-tech calling!” The man announces––a little too enthusiastically, Nora thinks. 

She answers politely, “Good morning.” 

“Isn’t it? Just look at that sky out there…” He pauses awkwardly. He is nervous. Nora wonders why Vault-Tech can’t hire representatives with better people skills.

The Vault-Rep clears his throat. “Huh-hmm. You can’t begin to know how happy I am to finally speak with you, Mrs…uh…” he checks his clipboard, “Mrs. Drake. I’ve been trying for days. It’s a matter of utmost urgency, I assure you, huh huh.” 

His nervous laugh bothers Nora. Her law training tells her he’s hiding something. 

“Well, I’m here now. What’s so important?”

“Well nothing less than your entire future!

If you haven't noticed, miss, this country has gone to heck in a hand basket.” 

Nora nods in response. 

_Damn right, the whole world has,_ She thinks. ‘ _…and I am afraid.’_ She hears Nate’s voice echo in her mind. 

The Vault-Rep clears his throat again and continues his over-rehearsed sales pitch. “The big kaboom is…well, it’s inevitable, I’m afraid…” _Me too,_ Nora’s mind interrupts, _I afraid too… “…_ and it’s coming sooner than you may think. If you catch my meaning.” 

His nervous energy is spreading and the conversation is uncomfortable. Nora is slowly becoming aware of the turning in her stomach and the tightness in her throat. The Vault-Rep senses the woman’s attention waining, so he speeds up. 

“Now, I know you’re a busy lady, so I won’t take much of your time––time being a–uh–a precious commodity…but due to your families service to this great nation of ours, yourself, your husband, and your child have been pre-selected for entrance into the local Vault! Vault 111!” 

The Vault-Rep’s forced positivity makes her uneasy. _He knows something––hiding something…_ her investigative mind keeps prying, but here this weaselly little man is baiting her with the blinding light of hope, right on a morning that she wants it. 

_Fear and hope––hook, line, and sinker._

Nora’s subconscious clings desperately to the hope immediately. She is now emitting a nervous energy of her own.

“A vault…Really?” is all she gets out.

“Oh, it’s wonderful, believe you me. You and your family are already cleared for entrance in the…uh-unforeseen event of–ahem–total atomic annihilation. I just need to clarify some information with you.” 

Nora spends the next few minutes with the Vault-Rep filling out paperwork about her and Nate’s medical histories and signing off some routine liabilities. 

When the Vault-Rep is gone, Nora feels a combination of nervousness, hopefulness, and exhaustion. 

_This country has gone to heck in a hand basket,_ her thoughts repeat. _The big kaboom is…inevitable…I’m afraid…and it’s coming sooner than you may think…_

_and I am afraid…_


	3. Target Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for reading and leaving Kudos!  
> I'm not sure if this chapter is too graphic, but I do like to be descriptive ;)  
> I also hate feral ghouls....ew.

MacCready - Post-war Wastelands - December 17, 2283 - 04:00

 

      Robert is yanked from his slumber by searing pain and the mushy, ripping sound of his calf muscle being torn from the bone in his right leg. Both Robert and Duncan cry out in pain and fear.

      The simultaneous cries from the young father and his infant son bounce off the curved walls of the subway in harmonious anguish. 

      The pain is blinding. Robert feels hot surges of agony pulse through his body; his eyes focus enough to locate the source if the pain as he writhes, constrained, on the tattered mattress. A nasty feral ghoul kneels at the foot of the mattress; its withered arms are pinning Robert down as its mutilated hands claw at the now exposed flesh of his leg, and it gnaws at the muscle with rotting, bloody teeth. 

      Robert kicks and jerks his leg violently out of the creature’s grasp, screaming again in pain as more of his skin tears away. 

      He clutches Duncan close against his body with one arm and fumbles around the side of the mattress with the other, searching blindly and desperately for his rifle. His clammy fingers graze the cool metal scope and he feels a chill run through him. 

      Still lying on his back on the mattress with Duncan in one arm and his rifle loosely grasped in the other, Robert fires at the ghoul without aiming. He knows the bullet landed when irradiated blood clouds his eyes and tingles his face in a wet stinking splatter. 

      The subway is dark and cold. Robert is sweating, feverish. His stomach dry-heaves from the pain in his leg and the smell of rotting blood on his face, but the gag produces nothing. He hasn’t eaten properly in days. 

      Still half blind from the ghoul blood on his face Robert blinks rapidly, looking desperately around the dark subway for his wife. 

      Muffled through Duncan’s screams, he can hear grunts of more ferals but can’t make out how many or how close. 

      Uncomfortably aware of the hole in his leg, Robert struggles to as much of a standing position as he can muster. 

      “Lucy?” he cries painfully into the darkness. 

      There was no human reply but the constant raspy grunting of feral ghouls. 

      Robert uses the sleeve of his rifle-wielding arm to wipe the remaining blood out of his eyes. 

      Through the darkness, he can make out a small pack of ghouls tearing away at a bloody mess against the subway wall. 

      Feral ghouls are not slow-moving creatures. The decaying, once-human vermin waste no time as they tear greedily at the flesh of their victim. 

      Robert hears them snarl and grunt like a pack of starving mongrels over a scavenged radstag carcass––except this carcass is his wife.

      Lucy is dead.

      “Oh…god…Lucy!” Robert cries. 

      Duncan cries too. 

      This noise alerts the ferals to the presence of fresher meat. 

      They move fast. Three ferals shoot up from their devoured meal and fling themselves toward Robert and Duncan. 

      “I’m so sorry…sorry…so…Lucy…” 

      Robert snatches his pack off the subway floor and runs––dragging his mutilated leg behind him––he runs as fast as he can toward the exit of the subway. He clobbers up the stairs, tripping, dragging his leg, choking on tears, and still repeating;

      “sorry…I’m so sorry…” 

      He can barely see the opening to surface. It is still in the cold dead of night. 

      The ghouls relentlessly fling themselves forward in a tangling mass of decaying limbs. The once-human creatures struggle to climb the stairs behind Robert, but with his crippled leg, they are gaining speed.

      As Robert reaches the top of the stairs, the largest feral propels itself off the shoulders of a smaller ghoul, and it claws at the bleeding hole in Robert’s leg. Robert screams in agony and falls forward, rolling over just in time to avoid smashing Duncan against the concrete floor. 

      The feral clings to Robert’s abused leg, sending fresh currents of pain through his body.  Robert withholds another cry long enough to focus his effort in aiming down his rifle with shaking, sweaty arms, weakened from blood-loss. 

      Another sickening spray of ghoul blood across Robert’s body confirms that the bullet hit its mark. The large feral flies back, forcing the smaller two down the stares in a flailing pile. 

      Robert blinks fast, fighting off tears a tunnel of blackness now beginning to crowd his vision. He pulls himself up, Duncan still held tightly against him with one arm, rifle in the other, and he stumbles out of the subway exit into the chilly Wasteland night.

 

      Adrenalin and blood-loss numb the pain as Robert flees across the moonlit wasteland as fast as his bleeding leg will allow. Robert needs to find shelter soon. The Wasteland isn’t a safe place to bleed. 

      When he reaches the edge of the town and is sure he has put a safe distance between himself and the subway exit, Robert slips the pack off his shoulder, sets it on a clean patch of ground, and nestles the sleeping Duncan safely up against it. He then lets out a shaky breath and allows himself to fall back against the building behind him. He eases himself slowly down the wall until he is seated, leaning against it. 

      The horizon is lightening to show signs of dawn, so Robert can now see the extent of his leg wound. 

      His pants are torn to hell and soaked in blood, mostly his. The wound on his right calf muscle is a three-inch radius of shredded bloody mess. 

 _Make a tourniquet_. He hears a young Lucy’s voice from their days in Little Lamplight. He used to tease her about her funny doctor words, but he honestly admired her medical knowledge. She had always been smarter than him. 

 _Make a tourniquet to stop the bleeding until I can stitch it._ Robert remembers helping her patch up a kid that stumbled into Little Lamplight, beaten and bloody, kicked out by some broken Mungos. 

      His heart burns and head pounds at the thought of Lucy. 

      He listens to her remembered words, nonetheless, and tears the sleeve off his coat. Shame he has to tear his favorite coat. He scavenged it off the body of a Raider victim back in the Capitol. The sleeves are too long for him, anyway. 

      Robert ties the sleeve tightly around his right leg, just below the knee. He winces as the tension sends a sharp pain through his already throbbing leg. 

      He wants desperately to lie there on the cool ground and allow himself to slip into unconsciousness, but he and Duncan will be killed out in the open––that is if the bleeding hole in his leg doesn’t kill him first. He needs medical attention soon.

      Robert checks his rifle mag and ammo pouch. Twelve 308s for the rifle and thirty little pecks for a snub-nose that he holsters under his belt. He sighs, hoping he won’t need to use the handgun. He hates close quarters––the hole in his leg being a good reason.

      He struggles again to stand, unzips his pack enough to fashion a pouch that Duncan fits snugly into, fixes the pack on his back, carries his rifle, and continues to limp along, heading north. 

      Robert battles unconsciousness as he limps into dawn. As he pushes on, his mind withdraws into memories of Lucy, but the memories arrive in bits and pieces. The Wasteland tends to use hunger, pain, and rads to drain its inhabitants’ memories; it leaches the moments of peace and humanity, leaving only the strongest moments. Robert will remember this night. He can always remember what hurts. 

      Lucy had a stubborn streak of moral fiber allowed her to find a goodness in everyone, even in the sorry souls inhabiting the Wasteland. Robert quickly became infatuated with her gentle kindness back in Little Lamplight. She served as the resident doctor while he was the mayor. 

      He never knew what drew her to a guy like him. Robert was an angry, reckless boy who would visit Lucy often with minor injuries. He and Lucy bonded as she tended to him. Eventually, Robert would seek injury on purpose just to be with her. He became addicted to her compassion. 

      When the two left Little Lamplight at sixteen––a little over two years ago––they married and had Duncan right away.  

      The Wasteland breaks everyone in a matter of time. Robert was ready for it. He was born mad, reckless…a killer. 

      But Lucy…she was innocent. Leaving the relative safety of Little Lamplight to be faced with the horrors of the Wasteland, all while being a mother at sixteen…it wasn’t long before she sought solace within her medicinal stores. 

      It hurt Robert to see her kindness murdered by a dependance on Med-X. 

 

      Lucy had been mad at him for the past few days, since finding out that he lied about being a soldier. He’d told her that he was joining a military group in the Commonwealth, but, in truth, he’d caught wind that a mercenary gang was looking to hire a new sharpshooter. Ever since he picked up a rifle for the first time when he was ten, Robert was well on his way to being the best sniper in the Wastelands.  

      He knew Lucy would never approve of his involvement in merc-gang, especially one as notorious for cruelty as the Gunners…so he lied. Said he’d be a soldier.

      The young family was already on their way to the Gunner base, just south of the Commonwealth, when Lucy found out the truth. 

      There was no real military group in the Commonwealth, save the fascist, fanatical Brotherhood of Steal who sought to purge the Wasteland of its evil through forced compliance and genocide, but Lucy had little knowledge of the world outside of chems and stitches. Robert knew that he lacks the honor and discipline to get tied up with a group like the Brotherhood of Squeals––Robert just needed caps and bullets, so he planned to answer the Gunners’ call. He knew he could’t keep the secret forever, but Lucy wouldn't let him go if she knew.

      Robert wonders guiltily if Lucy would still have died if he just told her the truth from the start. He sees the ghouls tearing her apart a little too clearly in his mind. His stomach turns and he blinks away another surge of tunnel vision. 

      The sun is now visible over the horizon and the adrenaline has run out. Dragging his mutilated leg behind him now takes all of his willpower. The aching leg seems to be pulling against him, trying to drag him back through the Wasteland and into the subway to be torn apart by ferals with Lucy. Part of him just wishes it would.  

 

      He is hungry, thirsty, tired, and losing the ability to focus on the road. Robert’s blue eyes contrast so harshly against his bloodshot scleras that he’s beginning to look like a diseased ghoul himself. 

      In in his head, he can see the three feral ghouls tearing away at his wife’s body over and over. 

      “So sorry…I’m so sorry…so..” He mutters like a broken record. 

      His mind replays the scene in the subway again and again until he loses focus completely. He misses a dip in the road and lands on his knees. A surge of hot pain shoots from his injured leg through the rest of his body and settles in his chest.  

      His soft mutterings of “Sorry…so sorry…” turn into an inhuman song of suffering. 

      He hears a noise ahead. A human noise––people speaking to each other, alerted by his cries. Driven by an unnamed determination, Robert crawls forward on all fours, dragging one leg, grinding his rifle along the ground with both hands. Duncan rests in the pack on his back. 

      He crawls forward, looking like a irradiated, mutated animal. 

      Robert can see the silhouette of three men coming to a stop in front of him. 

      “W’the hell is that?” Asks one of the men, the shortest. 

      “Another mutie mongrel?” Answers another. 

      “Hah ha! Looks like target practice to me.” The third jokes, pumping a shotgun; his voice is deeper and slower. 

      Robert struggles to stand, “Help…help me!” his voice comes out broken and his leg gives out again. He falls back to the earth, hard, tasting dirt.  

      “Damn, not a mongrel. What happened to him, uh?” Asks the shortest man, more to his friends than to Robert.

      “Looks like the Wasteland chewed ‘em up and spit ‘em up.” Answers the big slow one. “Gah, look at his leg!” The short one pokes at Robert’s wound, causing him to whimper. 

      “Ah-fucking––help me…” Robert forces his voice out louder this time, audible anger. 

      The slow one whistles. “Damn, nasty that is. He won’t make it livin’ a week. We should put him out of ‘is misery now, huh?” 

      The short one nods and pulls Robert up into a kneeling position. They still haven’t noticed the sleeping baby in his pack.

      “Yeah, guess you were right, Barnes.” The third man speaks again, cocking his pistol. He pulls Robert’s head back and positions the barrel under his chin, “Target practice.”


	4. The Big Kaboom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I used the last name "Drake" because it happened to come to mind in the first Nora chapter, but that means I accidentally named Nora's husband "Nathan Drake." Any Uncharted fans out there? Well, it's a strong name...I'm just gunna roll with it.

Nora - Pre-war Massachusetts - October 23, 2077

 

      “What’d that guy want?” Nate asks when Nora comes back in. He sits in the kitchen, reading today’s Boston Bugle. 

      “It was that Vault-Tech Rep that’s been trying to get ahold of us. Says we have a spot in the local Vault—Vault 111. Because of your army service.” 

      “Oh. Gosh, I hope we never need it.” Nate murmurs.

      Nora walks into the kitchen and sits at the table, sipping coffee. She takes a deep breath and allows herself to be happy again. 

      It won’t last long. 

      The TV is on in the living area behind her, but she tunes it out as she studies her husband at the counter. Nate always looks older when he reads the paper. He is only twenty-eight, but Nora can see the evidence of his five-year military career in his furrowed brow while he reads the hopeless news. She debates asking if the paper says anything important, but decides she’d rather not know. Ignorance is peaceful and happy. 

      It also felt a lot like lying. 

 

      “Master Nate, Missus Nora…I think you should hear this?” Codsworth motions to the television with a robotic arm. 

      Both Nate and Nora stand up and walk over to see the little screen. 

      “What is it, Codsworth?” Nate asks. 

      The little black and white picture flickers with more static than usual, but the audio is clear. Painfully clear. 

      The anchorman speaks slowly, sad, afraid;   
“Followed by…yes, followed by flashes. Blinding flashes. Sounds of explosions. We’re trying to get conformation…We have, coming in, confirmed reports of…nuclear detonations in New York and Pennsylvania…my god…” 

      Nora’s stomach does a flip. 

_The big kaboom…sooner than you might think…I am afraid…_

       “Oh god…I’m getting Shaun.” Nate says. 

       “We need to get to the Vault, now!” Nora yells. Nate is already coming back from the nursery, Shaun in his arms. 

       Nora yanks the front door open. 

       The neighborhood is in chaos. People are dragging luggage through the street, running toward the vault, trampling each other. Nora stays close to Nate as they run, his size parts the crowd. 

_The big kaboom…_

      Nora’s mind is racing. Her heart is pounding.

      The entrance to Vault 111 is at the top of a small hill just behind the neighborhood. There are Army soldiers guiding civilians through the chaos to the clearance line. A man stands guarded at the gate, clipboard in hand. There are two soldiers in power armor behind him. 

      The Vault-Tech Rep from earlier stands at the gate, flailing his arms in aggravation. The hat he was wearing earlier is missing and his hear is disheveled.

      “What do you mean ‘Not cleared?’ _I am_ Vault-Tech, dammit, let me through!” he yells, distraught. 

      “You’re not on the list, sir. I am sorry, but you need to move; you’re blocking the gate,” replies the clipboard-wielding soldier. 

      “Bullshit! Let me through!” The Vault Rep attempts to charge through, but a soldier in power armor lefts him like nothing and shoves him back down the hill. 

      The Vault-Rep falls to his knees and berries his head in his hands. Nora is stunned and stops for a moment, staring. 

      Nate is not phased by the scene and gently grabs his wife’s shoulder. 

      “Come on, hun. We need to get to the vault,” he assures. 

      Walking further toward the gate, Nora sees more and more of her neighbors––friends––rejected by the soldiers. 

_Oh god. What’s going to happen to all these people?_

      When they push through the crowd and arrive at the gate, the clipboard soldier asks, “Your name, please, Sir?” 

      “Nathan S. Drake. Former 2nd Battalion, 108th Infantry Regiment, U.S Army, and my wife, Nora, and infant son, Shaun.”

      “Very good, soldier. You and your family are cleared for entry.” 

      Nate gives Nora a nervous smile and she reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. 

      “Follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Drake” Says a soldier from behind the clipboard soldier. 

      Nate is still holding Shaun tightly against him and Nora trots behind, holding onto Nate’s shoulder. They follow the soldier, treading anxiously toward a large metal platform. 

      “Step onto the platform. In the center!” The soldier commands and the Drakes obey. 

      They can see all of Sanctuary Hills from the platform. The happy little neighborhood is crowded with panic. Nora watches troves of people run from their homes in desperation toward the vault. 

      An elderly couple stands in the middle of the crowded street holding onto each other. 

      Nora feels sick. 

      She steps closer to Nate, putting her hands on his arms, looking into his eyes. She doesn’t want to see anything but his eyes. 

      He stares back. “We’re going to be okay. I love you.” He says. 

      “I love y—“ 

      The big kaboom cuts her off. 

      She shrieks involuntarily as the platform begins to sink, and she hugs herself tightly up against Nate, Shaun cocooned between them. 

      She can hear a the panicked screams of the people left on the other side of the gate, but the noise is quickly drowned out by the atomic winds of the big kaboom. Her hair whips around behind her head and she cries into Nate’s chest. 

      Nora can feel the shock wave push Nate closer against her. The pulse almost knocks her down; she tightens her grasp on Nate’s arms, thankful for his strength. The shock rings in her ears and vibrates her teeth. She hears someone fall hard on the platform next to her, but her eyes are clamped shut. She won’t open them to see who fell. 

      They are sinking slowly, underground now. A metal seal has closed off the sky and Nora can no longer hear the rumble of total atomic annihilation. 

      They are sinking so, so slowly. Nora is still pressed close against Nate and Shaun. She listens to her husbands heart through his chest. It beats steadily. 

_How are you so calm?_

      Shaun has not woken up. Nora wonders of he hears Nate’s steady heart too. 

_How are you both so calm? Don’t you know the world is ending?_

 

      When the platform finally finishes its decent, Nora peals herself off of Nate. She notices the cooler air. She wonders how far underground they are.  

      As the doors open and people begin stepping off the platform, a middle-aged man in a tight blue jumpsuit stands by the stairs, holding a clipboard–– _what is it with Vault-Tech and clipboards?_

      The man makes happy announcements to the new arrivals. 

      “As the Overseer of Vault 111, let me be the first to welcome you all! There’s no need to worry, folks. We’ll get everyone situated in their new home! A better future, underground! Just head up the stairs and get yourselves acclimated!” 

      For the most part, people are keeping quiet, too scared to say anything. The Vault-Tech workers are keeping things moving in an orderly fashion. This calm Nora…a little. 

      When they reach the top of the stairs, another jumpsuit-clad man points to a table and says, “Welcome home, ma’am. Just step over to the table to pick up a vault suit.” 

      Nora and Nate wait in line by the table, watching their neighbors receive bright blue jumps suits. They walk up to the table as a family. 

      “Oh what a beautiful baby!” The woman handing out jumpsuits says. 

      “Indeed, a handsome miracle!” Says a man in a white lab coat to Nora’s left. 

      “Thank you.” Nora replies, uncomfortable with the normalcy. 

_Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?_

      She takes a Vault suit from the woman behind the table who tells her and Nate to follow the man in the lab coat, a doctor. 

      “Such a lovely family you have. Oh, you’re going to love it here. Vault 111 is one of our most advanced facilities, not that the others aren't great, mind you.” The doctor says, leading them down the hall. 

      “How long do you think we’ll be down here?” Nora asks. 

      “Oh, we’ll go over all that in orientation. There are just a few medical items we need to get through first.” 

      The doctor leads them into a room lined with large metal pods with cushioning inside. The thought of being closed inside of one suddenly makes Nora feel claustrophobic. 

      “Just put your Vault suit on and step into this decontamination pod.” 

      Nora nods, nervously, and steps around the side of the pod to drop her dress and pull on the tight blue vault suit. Nate does the same, his pod across the room from Nora’s. 

      Nate bounces Shaun gently in his arms. “It’ll be okay. Mama’s right over there, see?” 

      Nora walks over to her boys, kisses Shaun on the head and Nate on the lips, holding the kiss for a moment. 

      “I love you,” she finishes her sentence from earlier when the big kaboom cut her off. 

      “I love you too. We’re going to be okay, alright?” 

      Nora nods in response and turns toward her pod.

      She climbs in and sees Nate do the same as the door comes down, closing her in. She watches her husband and son through the little window. An automated voice plays from inside the pod;

      “Checking vitals…Occupant’s vitals normal…Decontamination procedure complete in 5…4…” 

      The pod is getting colder. 

_Something’s wrong._

_“3…”_

      Much colder. Nora loses feeling in her fingers. She tries to move, but can’t. She heres the crackling of ice on the little window.

      “..2…1…” 

      White out. 

 


	5. Hold Your Breath, MacCready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got around to editing this chapter. I don't have a whole lot of plans for where this story is going...but I'm having fun, so Imma keep at it.

 

MacCready - Post-War Wastelands - December 17, 2283 - 07:00

 

      “Yeah, guess you were right, Barnes.” The third man with the gravelly voice speaks again, cocking his pistol. He pulls Robert’s head back and positions the barrel under his chin, “Target practice.

      Robert struggles weakly against the two men holding him. 

      The man with the pistol to Robert’s chin growls and tightens his grasp around the young man’s throat. Robert can see the man’s face clearly now. He seems to be late twenties, but a bit rough around the edges. He has short crew-cut brown hair, tan skin, small scars on his face, and black eyes.

 _A real douche._  

      “Quit fucking squirming!” the man orders, cutting off Robert’s air. 

      All the struggling wakes up Duncan who is still nestled in Robert’s backpack. The baby cries loudly and both men loosen their grips on the young father, stunned. 

      “The fuck is that, Winlock?” Barnes, the big slow now, asks from Winlock’s side, a shotgun held loosely.  

      “A…baby?” The word sounds strange in Winlock’s gruff voice. 

      “Shit. You’re not gunna…shoot a baby…” says the short man behind Robert, more as a question than a statement. 

      Winlock pulls his lip up in a snarl and shoves Robert’s head to the dirt. Robert moans through his teeth as he is flattened to the ground, feeling the pain in his wounded leg. Winlock unzips the backpack to reveal a crying Duncan. 

      “What are you gunna do?” Barnes questions.

      Robert tries to raise his his head. Winlock kicks him back down––hard. 

      “Nah, it’d be a waste of bullets. Check him for caps and leave him to the Wastelands,” Winlock answers. 

      Stepping back, Winlock rubs his face with a green bandana. Robert sees a logo on it; a skull with an “X” on its forehead––it’s the Gunners symbol. 

_Holy shit._

      This isn’t the first impression Robert planned to make. 

      “W-wait! You’re Gunners? Why are you this far south of the Commonwealth?” Robert stammers, spitting dirt from his mouth. 

      “Yeah. Best merc-gang in the Wasteland, scouting out the southern territory. What’s is to ya, kid?” Barnes brags. 

      Robert rolls over and pulls his bum-leg in front of himself so he can sit up. He takes off his pack and retrieves Duncan, hoping the crying will stop. He clears his throat and looks up, attempting to hide the fact that he’s swaying. Duncan’s crying quiets when Robert cradles him in both arms.

      “I heard the Gunners need a sharpshooter in the Commonwealth. I was on my way there when we were attacked by feral ghouls––when this happened. I’m a damn good shot.”  

     “Hah! We need a killer, not some kid––with a _kid_ ––who’s comes crawling to us, bleeding like a wounded mutie mongrel. Look how skinny he is too. ‘e looks like a chem-whore.” Barnes replies with his dumb voice. 

      “Look, give me a stempack, stitch me up, I’ll be good as new. I’m the best sniper in the Wasteland, you won’t regret it. Plus, I don’t even have any caps, anyway. I’ll be worth more if you take me with you.” Robert motions to his rifle that has been kicked a few feet away. 

      The short gunner walks over and picks it up, admiring the weapon. He says to Winlock, “It’s a nice rifle, Winlock. I don't think he’s lying. You know Captain Wes will kill us if we reject a sniper, and Lieutenant Clint has been on our asses to find a replacement since Eli died.”  

      “What about the…baby?” Barnes asks, a mixture of confusion and disgust in his tone. 

      “Duncan will be fine. He’s mine to worry about. I swear, he won’t be any trouble,” Robert pleads.  

      Winlock forces out a heavy sigh. “It’ll take us a month, maybe more, to get him up to Quincy with his leg in that shape…” He takes the rifle from the short guy and looks it over. It _is_ a nice weapon.

      Winlock continues, “…if we do take him, I’m not lugging his ass all the way to the Commonwealth. Maybe if we drop him off at the Gunner camp west of Philly…it would only take a couple days from here.” 

      The short guy curls his lip like a bratty child. “West of Philly? Isn’t that–uh Rick guy the lieutenant there? That guy’s fuckin’ weird.” 

      Barnes chimes in, “Yeah, but at least we won’t have to babysit all the way back to Quincy.”

_I can hear you, asshole._

      “What’s your name, kid?” Winlock asks.

      “Name’s MacCready. Robert Joseph MacCready.”

      The short guy laughs and punches Winlock’s shoulder. “Hah! _MacCready_? I heard tale of this kid back in the Capital Wasteland. He got in trouble stealin’ from Brotherhood of Steal––shot his way right out of the Capital. The B.O.S never even got a shot in. This kid’s a legend, man.” He whistles. 

      MacCready nods, trying to put on a cocky smirk. 

      Winlock turns the rifle over in his hands. He pulls his lips into a thin line, nods, and says, “Shit…fine. Give the kid a couple of stems and we’ll drop him off at Lieutenant Rick’s.” He kneels down, his dumb, douchey face uncomfortably close to Mac’s. He frowns at the baby in the boy’s arms. “You better be worth it.” 

      “I don’t disappoint.”  

      Without warning, Barnes comes over with a stempack and shoves it into MacCready’s leg, just above the wound. Mac cringes and lets out a “Gahh!” but the pain subsides quickly and he feels a coolness spread through his leg from the injection site. 

      Barnes tosses him a second stem to inject himself. Mac holds Duncan in one arm and stabs the second stem right under the wound, feeling another stabbing pain, then the same spreading coolness. He loosens the tourniquet, allowing the cool serum crawl further through his veins, healing. 

      Winlock’s gruff voice refocuses Mac’s attention, “Rick’s camp is a two day hike north east. I’ll be holding on to this until we get there,” he pats the stock of MacCready’s rifle, “then, _if_ you make it there…we’ll see about giving it back.” 

      Mac doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have a choice. Plus, they're too dumb to check him for the snubnose he keeps in his belt, so he’s not going to risk an argument. Also, they did just save his and Duncan’s life. 

      “Fair enough.” Mac replies. 

      Winlock hands Mac a dirty can of pork ’n beans. “Barnes is right. You’re really fuckin’ skinny. 

      You’ll walk and eat. Keep up––oh, and keep that kid quiet.” 

 

      Mac splits the tasteless, mushy contents of the can with Duncan, eating as he limps along. 

_So, the Wasteland isn’t done with me yet…I’ll live…_

… _Lucky me._

 

                                    [Four years later]

 

MacCready - Wasteland Farm Settlement, 120 Miles north of the Capital Wasteland -  March 8, 2287 - 

 

      Mac and Duncan sit on a log out on the edge of the farm, facing a dead forrest of bald trees. The sun is setting colorfully this evening. The naked trees of the dead forest cast black shadows across the orange light of the sky.  

      Duncan sits close to Mac, holding his knees up on the log. He is a little over four years old, and quite small and thin for his age––to be expected for the son of a single father who is in debt to and on the run from the most ruthless mercenary gang in the eastern Wasteland. 

      The young father dramatically reads a comic while his son absorbs every word, seeing the _Astoundingly Awesome Tale_  take place before his young, imaginative eyes. 

      “…and as long as the she blows a kiss with every pull of her trigger, the Starlet Sniper will hit her every mark.” Mac finishes the last line and closes the comic. 

      Duncan wears a thoughtful face. The small boy frowns and looks at his father. “But how does the Starlet Sniper hold her breath to aim if she’s always blowing kisses?”  
      Mac laughs, “Huh, good question. Well, if the Starlet Sniper knew all the tricks we know, she’d probably be even better and wouldn’t get herself in all this trouble anyway, yeah?” Duncan nods, thoughtfully considering the possibility. “I bet she’d be _almost_ as good as the legendary Duncan ‘The Sharpshootin’’ MacCready!” 

      Duncan smiles wide and hops off the log, picking up a stick off the ground. 

      “Step one: check the chamber for bullets.” Duncan brings his hand up to the side of the pretend rifle and motions like he is pulling the bolt lever back. “Check.” 

      Mac is beaming. “Step two?” he quizzes. 

      “Step two: Look down the scope and put the target in the middle of the lines.” Duncan answers as he lifts the stick and aims at a dead tree a few yards away. 

      “Correct! Whats next?” 

      “Step three: Nice and steady…hold your breath. Aaaaand….BANG!” 

      “Whoah! Another perfect shot by the ‘Astoundingly Awesome’ Duncan 'The Sharpshootin'' MacCready!” Mac praises. He can’t stop smiling.

     Duncan drops the stick and raises both of his weak little fist in the air to celebrate his victory. 

      “I’m gunna be better than the Starlet Sniper. I’m going to be as good a sniper as you, Daddy!” 

      Mac gives Duncan and warm hug and musses the boy’s dark head of hair. “Even better,” he replies. 

     “But first, you have to grow tall and strong, so you can hold a real rifle steady, okay? So, lets go get you to sleep so you can grow.” 

      “Ok, Daddy. Race you to the shack?” Duncan asks, eyes wide. 

      Mac smiles and nods. “Last one there helps Mrs. Greta with the Mutfruit tomorrow!” 

      Duncan blunders off in the direction of a the smallest shack on the farm. He would’ve been a fast boy in another world, but the Wasteland has other plans. 

      Mac trots after him, planning on letting his son win, of course. Mac still runs with a slight limp in his right leg from the ghoul attack four years ago. The stempacks and useless Gunner doctor at the Philly base kept him alive, but that injury was a hurt too deep for the Wasteland go allow him to forget. 

And this world isn't done with him yet. 

 

      Mac watches Duncan run clumsily forward. 

      The boy is half way to their little farm shanty when Mac notices something is wrong. Duncan begins coughing hard and dry. He slows to a stop…

      Then collapses. 

      “Duncan?!” Mac yells, running to his son. 

      Mac falls to his knees beside his son, “Duncan? What’s wrong?” He gently rolls Duncan over. The boy is barely conscience. Mac lifts Duncan into his arms.

      “No, no, no, Duncan wake up! Greta, Roy, somethings wrong!” He calls the other settlers. 

      Greta, an old woman, comes shuffling out of the farmhouse. Roy, a skinny middle-aged man, comes running from the brahman trough he was filling, spilling water down the front of himself in the startle. 

     “Oh my heavens! What’s happened, MacCready? Is the boy injured?” Greta asks, her voice frightened and shaky. 

     “I don’t know. H-he was fine, then he just fell––what do I do?!” 

     “Take him inside the house, Mac!” Roy calls while running to them. “Greta, check the bottom cabinet in the back room. I have some medical supplies.” 

     Greta scrambles back into the farm house. Mac stands with Duncan in his arms and runs into the building behind her, his limp worsens from stress. 

 

      MacCready rests Duncan on a dirty floored mattress in the back room of the farmhouse. Greta hands Roy a small green bag from the bottom cabinet. Roy dumps the contents out. 

      Two half-empty stempacks and an old bag of RadAway. 

      “Shit-shit––what do we do?” Roy mutters. 

      Mac holds Duncan’s head in his hands, gently patting his son’s cold cheeks. Duncan coughs, his throat tight, and his eyes flutter, struggling to stay open. 

_This can’t be happening._

     “Duncan? No, stay with me––don’t go to sleep. Do something, Roy!”

     “I-I don’t know what to do! I don’t even know what’s wrong with him!” 

     Mac’s eyes are welling up and he feels a brick in his chest.

     Greta’s old, shaky voice fills the silent room, “His hands…what’s happening to his hands?” 

     Mac leans back from Duncan’s face to watch blue blisters spread from the child’s hands, up his arms.

     “Oh my god…” Roy whispers. 

     “No, what––Duncan? Duncan?” Mac panics as the boy goes unconscious. “Give him a stem, dammit Roy!” 

     Roy’s hands are shaking as he prepares a fractioned dose. “We don’t even know if it’ll do anything…”  
     “I don't care….I have to try.” Mac stammers through tears. 

     MacCready gently injects the stem into Duncan’s thin arm. 

     “C’mon, son. You have to wake up…” 

     A few moments later, Duncan’s eyes flutter open, but he immediately jerks forward and has another violent coughing fit, then passes out again. 

 

     Hours pass into the night. 

     The stempacks are empty. Duncan only wakes to have coughing fits. The blue blisters have spread from his hands to his chest. 

     Greta falls asleep in a wooden chair; Roy dozes off, slumped against the wall. 

     MacCready is wide awake, eyes bloodshot, puffy and salted with tears. 

 

 

     And so the same goes for three days. 

     Duncan stays awake for moments at a time, only long enough to eat a little and cough a lot. He is too weak to walk.  

_This. This is too much._

_He doesn't deserve this._

     Roy goes to the caravan stop every few hours to check for stempacks and doctors with no such fortune. 

     Greta reminds Mac to eat. 

     Duncan sleeps.

     Mac does not. 

 

     On the fourth day, Roy rushes home from the caravan stop and barrels into the back room of the farmhouse, sweating, panicked. 

     “MacCready?! You need to leave. Now.” 

     “Roy? What, why?” Mac breathes. He is sleep deprived. His head is pounding.

     “There’s a gang of Gunners on their way here––right now. Looking for you.” 

_Fuck my life. Gunners this far south?_

     “If you want your boy to stay alive, the Gunners can’t find out he’s yours. I’ll keep him hidden. You need to run! Now!” Roy grabs Mac by the shoulders, shoves his rifle in his hands, and pushes him to the door. “Come back in an hour.” 

      Mac grabs Roy firmly by the collar.  “You keep him _safe._ You owe me this. _”_

      Roy swallows hard, staring into Mac’s piercing, bloodshot blue eyes. He nods quickly. 

      Mac releases him and runs into the dead forest, rifle in hands. 

    

 


	6. Set it Out to Thaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!   
> This is that short little chapter when Nora leaves the vault, you know, the one pretty much everyone with a Fallout 4 fic has a version of.   
> This is my version.   
> Sorry it took me so long to update. I've had a busy week.  
> Hopefully, I'll be able to get another interesting Mac chapter up in a few days, so stay tuned!

Nora - Vault 111 - November 12, 2227

 

_“Nora?”_

_“Yes, Nate?”_

_“Do you remember what I said to you the night before I left for war?”_

_“Yes. Your voice was so sad that night, and it made me so scared. You told me about your father and your grandfathers. How each of them fought and died in service of the country.”_

_“And I told you how I’ve spent my whole life learning how to die for the causes of men I will never meet.”_

_“Yes, then you put your hands on my face––like this––and you looked into my eyes and said, ‘When I met you, it was the first time in my life that I found a cause worth living for.’ and, Nathan, I will never forget that.”_

 

     The vivid memory is blotted out by white light as the sound of crackling ice fills the chamber. 

     The automated voice plays inside the pod, “Manual Override initiated. Cryogenic Stasis suspended.”

     Nora inhales sharply and feels the cold air sting all the way from her lips into her tight lungs. Color begins to return from her vision and she squints through the little window, seeing her husband struggling to do the same from his pod across the room. 

     She wants to badly to scream his name and to hear him yelling hers in return, but her lips won’t move and her tongue feels frozen. 

 

     The sound of hurried steps in heavy boots fills the vault.  Nora can hear it muffled from inside her pod. 

     A bald man strides up to Nate’s pod. His walk is impatient and demanding. He taps the glass of Nate’s window with a gloved knuckle. 

     “This is the one.” The man states in a strangely soft voice. “Open it.”

     A petite figure inclosed in a crisp white lab suit hurries over to the pod’s evacuation lever and pulls it forward with both hands. 

     Shaun is already wailing when the door opens, but Nate still moves slowly, blood thick with cold. 

     “Is it over? Are we okay?” Nate asks through shaky breaths. 

     The bald man and scientist pause for a moment, watching the father and son thaw back to life. 

     “Well, go get him.” The scientist orders, urgently. 

     The bald man reaches for the baby, but Nate pulls back. 

     “No. No, I’ve got him.” Nate argues, pulling the baby against him, but his arms are weak. 

     “Everything’s going to be fine.” The bald man’s voice is low and calm, but there are strange layers to it that make Nora feel even colder. 

     “No! I won’t let you take my son!” Nate’s voice breaks. Nora knows his lungs must burn the same way her’s do.

     “Let him go,” the man’d cold voice instructs, “I’m only going to tell you once.”

 _Or what?_ Nora thinks. 

     Nate grunts and pulls Shaun against him with all his strength. 

     This struggle has lasted long enough. The bald man lets go and steps back. Nate cradles Shaun against his chest. Then…

     BANG. 

     Nate goes limp. 

     The scientist gasps and catches Shaun in her arms. 

     The bald man holsters his pistol.

     Through her frozen little window, Nora can barely see the thick red band of blood crawling down her husband’s cold face. She wants to cry out. It is too cold. She can’t even shed a tear. She can’t even close her eyes. 

     “Goddammit. Get the kid out of here. Let’s go.” The bald man orders, flatly. 

     The scientist pushed the red lever back down and the door to the pod slowly lowers, closing in Nate’s cold corpse, the she walks away, carrying Shaun.

     The bald man walks up to Nora’s window before following the scientist. Nora’s eyes are opened wide and locked straight ahead. She memorizes the man’s face through the icy glass. Bald head, olive skin, grey eyes, and a think pink scar from his brow, over his eye, and into his cheek. 

     “At least we still have the back up.” His layered voice floats through the glass window and crawls up her spine. He taps at the glass as if Nora were a fish in a tank. 

     The automated voice plays from inside the pod, “Cryogenics reinitialized in 5…4…” –– _When I met you, it was the first time in my life that I found a cause worth living for––_ “3…2…”––

 _and, Nathan, I will never forget that––“…_ 1.” 

 

Nora - Vault 111 - October 4, 2287

 

_“This is the one._

_“Open it._

_“Everything’s going to be fine._

_“Let him go_

_“I’m only going to tell you once._

 

_BANG_

 

_“Let’s go._

_“At least we still have the back up.”_

 

     This time, the white light eats up the vivid memory much faster, but it is accompanied by the same automated voice as before:

“Critical failure in Cryogenic Array. All Vault Residents must evacuate immediately.” 

 

     The first cold breath burns Nora’s respiratory system the same way it did after the last thawing. 

     Nora squints through the frosted glass that crackles as it warms up. In the pod across the room, she sees Nate through his pod’s window. His head is hung, unmoving. The red band of blood has faded to an icy pink and is frozen to his face. 

     The pod sends rhythmic currents of heat through Nora to thaw her blood. She can move this time. 

     When she gains feeling in her fingers and actual tears finally run from her big brown eyes, the pod door creaks up. Nora stumbles forward. On the other side of the pod door, she is met with warm, dusty air and complete silence. 

     Nora runs madly to the pod across the room and grinds her teeth with the effort it takes to wrench up the red evacuation lever. 

     “No, no, no, no, no…Nate.” She mutters as the pod door crawls up, revealing her love’s frozen corpse. 

     Nate’s arms are in front of him, frozen as if he were still grasping for his infant son. His fingers closed into fists, refusing to let go. 

     Nora reaches out with shaky hands and closes them around his left fist. The frozen metal of his wedding ring burns her fingers. She pries open his dead grip and involuntarily whimpers when she hears his fingers crack as they open. She works the wedding ring off of his finger and brings it to her lips, crying. 

     She fights back the tears and pushes down the sick rising in her stomach to make a promise against the ring touching her lips, “I’ll find him, Nate. I’m going to save our baby and kill the man who did this.” 

     Nora kisses his ring, puts it on her finger, closes Nate’s pod, and turn to the exit of the room. 

 

     Nora’s muscles are stiff and cold. As she shuffles through rooms of cryo-pods, she ignores the fact that no other pod doors have opened and that the people thawing them–– the people who used to be her friends and neighbors––are completely unresponsive. Probably dead.

     So she looks straight forward as she walks.  

     Her world ended today, and she doesn’t want to be the sole witness of every one of her neighbor’s personal Armageddons on her way to the surface.  

 

      Nora easily remembers the path through the vault back to the platform that swallowed her into this frozen hell. It hasn’t been very long. She can still picture all the clipboard-wielding Vault-Tech doctors and guards that led her and Nate through these halls on the day of the Big Kaboom…but where are they now? 

_Oh God…I can’t be the only one left._

      As she approaches a security door towards the main entrance room of the vault, she hears a scratch across the window to her left and catches a glimpse of a brown streak scurrying away. 

 _What the_ hell _was that?_

     The door opens automatically and Nora gasps at the smell of death and the sight of a mostly decayed body in an office chair at the desk in the rooms center. The gasp strains Nora’s tight lungs into a dry coughing fit.

_What the hell happened in here._

     Nora takes a deep breath, wincing at the smell, and spins her husbands wedding ring on her finger, channeling his strength. When she feels her heartbeat steady, she walks purposefully toward the desk, her eyes avoiding the skeletal remains next to her. 

     Theres a pistol on the desk, a box of ammo, and some stempacks. She picks up the pistol. She is familiar with the make. She had many dates with her infantry soldier at the firing range. 

_It should’ve been me. I should be dead and frozen in a pod and Nate should be saving our baby boy…_

She wipes tears away, loads the pistol, and tucks the ammo and stempacks into her jumpsuit. 

 

     The dusty air and smell of decay grow more dense as Nora reaches the door to the main entrance of the Vault. Nora remembers, on the other side of this room, there will be a large metal vault seal that she’ll have to get open, then she’ll take the walkway and the stairs to the room with the platform where the overseer greeted them as they sunk away from the surface and the end of the world. 

     “ _A better future, underground!”_ She remembers the forced-positive voice of the overseer from the day of the Big Kaboom. 

     The automatic door opens and Nora screams. 

     “What the––“ 

     A giant cockroach leaps for her face, but she catches it and pins it against the wall. Its prickly, spiny legs scrap her arm as she bashes it to death with the butt of her pistol. 

     Breathing heavily, Nora turns in time to aim down and fire at a second roach that sits chewing, unsuspecting, at the boney arm of a skeletal corpse on the metal walkway ahead. 

     Its body explodes in a grey green spray when her bullet hits. 

_Thank you, Nate._

_Oh, and giant roaches….everyone is dead and there are giant roaches._

     The metal vault seal makes up most of the room and the large motorized arm that unlocks it hangs from the ceiling. Nora shuffles up the few metal steps and examines the panel on the railing. Theres a big fed button in a case a Pip Boy plug-in slot.

     She notices a Pip Boy on the arm of the corspe at her feet, and unlatches it from the dusty arm. Oddly, she’s feeling a little less sick and a little more motivated with every corpse she meets. Whatever happened to this world, she knows she doesn’t want to end up as food for a giant fucking cockroach. 

     So, she straps the Pip Boy to her arm and plugs it into the panel slot. The case opens up and she slams the big red button down. 

     The automated voice Nora has grown familiar with fills the room, “Vault Door Cycling Sequence initiated. Please stand clear of the extending walkway.”

     Nora covers her ears as the large mechanical arm extends forward, creaking and banging loudly as it unlocks the massive vault seal. 

     Nora kicks the skeletal arm of the Vault worker off her shoe as she turns to take the walkway to Vault 111’s exit. She feels a surge of pity for the limp corpses of so many Vault-Tech workers who spent there final hours in forced-positivity and dishonest optimism. 

     The mechanical arm finishes unlocking the vault and recedes to take it’s place back on the ceiling. 

_A better future underground? Well, it’s time for me to see a future worse than this._


	7. Little Toy Soldier

MacCready - Wasteland Farm Settlement, 120 Miles north of the Capitol Wasteland -  March 8, 2287

 

_“I’m sleepy…Why are we leaving at bedtime, Daddy?”_

_“Shhh… keep your voice down, Duncan. We have to leave while everybody is sleeping because Mr. Rick had to go away, and he can’t keep Daddy’s friends from taking you from me now.”_

_“But why would your friends take me away?”_

_“Because, Mr. Rick was so nice to us. He saved my life and he gave you lots of cool things. My friends think that I need to pay for all the things Mr. Rick did for us.”_

_“Is that a debt? I heard Mr. Winlock say you had a ‘debt?’”  
     “Yeah, Duncan. Winlock and Barnes and some of the other guys say I’ve gotta pay because Mr. Rick liked me and you better than them.” _

_“But that’s not fair. You work harder than all them.”_

_“I know, bud. But Mr. Rick is gone, so he can’t keep telling them that anymore, so you need to be very quiet and we’re going to go someplace where they can’t find us, okay?”_

_“Okay, Daddy. I understand.”_

_“Now grab your bag and lets hit the road.”_

_“Daddy?”_

_“Yeah, Duncan?”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you, too, D.”_

 

     Mac jerks awake and wraps his arms around the branch of the tree that he just fell asleep in, and almost fell out of because of it. 

     He is hidden half way up a large tree on a hill, overlooking the small farm where he and Duncan have lived in hiding from the Gunners for two months. Mac and Duncan arrived at the farm in January of 2287, after weeks of camping in woods and at caravans stops. When they wondered onto poor old Greta’s Farm, the old woman’s son, Roy, had been taken hostage by a group of Raiders. Mac cleared out the Raider problem and rescued Roy, so Greta took Mac and Duncan in to live and work on the farm. 

     Roy owes Mac his life and he hadn’t forgotten this fact when he promised to keep Duncan safe while the Gunners flash their guns, ask stupid questions, and bully old Greta.  

     It has been a half hour since Roy came back from the caravan stop with message that the Gunners are coming to the farm, and Mac adjusts, uncomfortably stranding a tree branch. 

     He and rubs his sore eyes with his scarf and brings up his trusty pair of binoculars. 

     Nothing to see yet but the quiet little farm. 

     Roy rakes fresh grass into the Brahman pen. Greta must be inside with Duncan. 

     MacCready is worried about Duncan. This is the longest he’s been away from his son’s side since the illness took hold––coughing, weakness, blue blisters––he’s never seen or heard of anything like it. 

_Hang in there, bud._

     Three men come strutting on the farm.

     Mac recognizes all three Gunners––some of Winlock’s assholes. 

     Mac never fit in with the Gunners, especially after Lieutenant Rick at the Philly camp took a liking to Duncan, and gave Mac “special treatment.” Rick was an older man who’d lost his wife and son years before joining the Gunners. Mac guesses Duncan reminded the Lieutenant of his late-son, must be why Rick treated him so well, and kept the other Gunners off Mac’s back about having an extra mouth to feed. 

     There was also the fact that Mac really did turn out to be the best sharpshooter in the Wasteland.  The other guys couldn’t hit a squirrel with a rocket launcher and Mac’s skill set tended to land him the best paying jobs. 

     Winlock and his dumb bodyguard, Barnes, were the worst. For the most part, they worked up in the Commonwealth, but every few months, they took a trip south to check on their two-stempack and a can of Pork n’ Beans investment. Winlock seemed to think the caps Mac brought in weren’t a sufficient reparation for “everthing the Gunners’ have done for you and that useless kid.” Lieutenant Rick did his best to keep the guys off Mac, but every other Gunner was scared enough of Winlock and his goons to take any chance they could to rough Mac up. 

     Lieutenant Rick died two months ago. One of Winlock’s favorite assholes was promoted to Lieutenant at the Philly camp. Needless to say, that’s when Mac and Duncan snuck out. 

 

     Roy turns from his chores when one of the Gunners calls to him. Mac can’t hear what they’re saying from his perch, and he has no way of knowing if Duncan is well hidden inside the farmhouse. He opts to look through the scope of his rifle, rather than the binoculars. If any man goes to check the farmhouse…That’ll be a dead man.  

     The conversation starts out sour and it only takes a moment for two of the Gunners to have Roy’s arms held behind his back while the third starts throwing punches. 

_Shit. Real fucking diplomatic._

     Mac sees Roy spit blood and shake his head after the third punch. 

     The Gunners release his arms and shove him to the dirt. The punchy one holds him down with a boot on his back and directs the two other men to check Mac’s shanty and the farmhouse. 

_Dead men._

     Mac waits. 

     One man reaches the door to the shanty. The other reaches to open the door of the farmhouse.

     Mac holds his breath, then…

     POP.

     The punchy guy’s head bursts open and he collapses on top of Roy. 

     The two remaining Gunners run to their fallen leader. 

     Two pops later, their bodies add to the bleeding pile on top of Roy. 

     Mac sighs heavily, slings his rifle strap over his shoulder, and slides down the tree trunk. 

     Roy heaves the dead weight of three Gunners off himself and staggers toward the farmhouse, tasting blood and fighting the sick rising in his throat. 

     Mac goes stops my his shanty before heading into the farmhouse. 

     A moment later, he meets Roy, Greta, and Duncan in the back room, his tan coat on, rifle on his shoulder, a full pack on his back, and a sagging bag of caps in his hand. 

     Duncan is asleep, breathing raspy, blue blisters on his hands, arms, chest, and neck. 

     Mac frowns and shoves the bag of caps into Roy’s arms, warranting a startled and confused expression from the skinny man. 

     “That’s all I have. Take the next caravan heading south. The Gunners wouldn’t dare a trip any closer to the Capital Wasteland. Take Duncan with you. See any doctor you find. I’m going to the Commonwealth. If there’s a cure, it’ll be there.” 

     Roy nods quickly, “Ok, but Mac, the Gunners will kill you if they find you working in their territory.”

     “So let ‘em try. I have to save my son. That’s all that matters. Promise me you’ll keep him safe. You’ll go south and send updates north with traders.”

     “I swear it, Mac. I will.” 

     Mac nods and walks to the mattress on the floor, kneeling by his ill son. 

     He pats Duncan’s shoulder gently. 

     “Hey, Duncan? Can you hear me?”  
Duncan’s eyes flutter. He whispers something that sounds enough like “Daddy” to form a weak, crooked smile on Mac’s face. 

     “Listen to me Duncan…I have to leave for a little bit. I’m going to find you medicine, okay? Mr. Roy and Mrs. Greta are going to take you to a safe place and you’re going to get better, you hear?”

     Mac doesn’t even try to hold back tears as he speaks. They fall freely and quietly from his eyes, roll down his face, and fall onto his hands, which are grasped gently around on of Duncan’s. 

     Duncan stirs and coughs, but makes no verbal response. The silence makes this moment even harder. 

_This is my fault. If I’d never lied. Never joined the Gunners._

_I deserve it._

_Oh God, Lucy…I’m so sorry._

_Duncan…I’m so so sorry._

     “I-I don’t want to leave you…but there’s hope in the Commonwealth. I can’t––I can’t take you with me––But I’m going to be better…for you, I’m going to talk better and act better, okay? I promise, Duncan, I’ll be a better man for you.”

     Duncan coughs hard, then opens his eyes. Mac helps him sit up, forcing a smile through tears. 

     Duncan doesn’t speak, but lifts a weak arm toward a little wooden figure on the ammo box next to his mattress. Mac pick up the toy wooden shoulder. Mac remembers when Lucy carved it for Duncan and whispered to the baby that his daddy was a good man. A soldier. That was before she knew it was a lie. 

     Duncan takes a shaky breath and whispers, “For you…” then he lays down and falls asleep. 

     Mac holds onto his son’s tiny little malnourished hand with on hand and holds the little wooden soldier in the other. The young father closes his eyes, and mouths the words “For you.”

 

 


	8. The Worse Future

Nora - Post-War Sanctuary Hills - October 4, 2287 - 08:00

 

 _Time for me to see a future worse than this,_ Nora thinks as the rising platform carries her to the surface of a word that has ended. 

     The metal vibrates under her feet and the mechanics grunt and squeal loudly as the platform rises. She doesn’t remember the mechanics struggling this way during the descent on the day of the Big Kaboom.  It is clear this Vault has aged. 

_How long has it been?_

     Nora’s heart tightens at the thought of Shaun living in this world without her, and _for how long?_

     Blinding light from the surface resumes her beating heart and brings her back to attention, but only for a moment. As the platform reaches its destination and comes to a stop, Nora stands facing the wasted ruins of Sanctuary Hills. Her heart nearly leaps out of her chest at the sight. 

    Once a quaint little slice of the American Dream, her neighborhood––her home––is now striped bear. Reduced to cracked foundations and weathered piles of wood. 

    The aged trees that once casted a pleasant shade over the hills are leafless and grey, allowing the sun to blare full-force with a faded yellow light. There is no grass––replaced by cracked dirt and a few dry flowers Nora has never seen this kind of fauna before. Where the smooth black asphalt road once ran through the neighborhood, a shattered, gravelly, grey strip takes its place. 

    She sees no people. No animals. No life at all. 

    She stands, frozen, on the metal platform.      

    She spins the two wedding rings around on her cold finger, a habit she hasn’t stopped doing since prying Nate’s ring off of his thawing corpse––aside from using both hands to bash the life out of some giant cockroaches. 

    She takes a shaky deep breath. 

_I can’t be the only one left._

_Shaun is out there. I’ve gotta find Shaun._

    Spinning the ring for courage, Nora steps off the platform and begins walking down the hill, toward to the ruins of her home. 

 

Seven. 

Eight. 

Nine. 

 

    Nora counts skeletons on her way down the hill from Vault 111.  

 

Ten. 

_They’re so withered. How long…?_

    She doesn’t know why she counts them.

 

Eleven. 

Twelve.

 

_They haven’t been buried._

     She keeps walking. 

     Nora squints through the blaring sunlight and notices a reflection catching with glittery movement in front of her home. Recognition suddenly takes hold. 

     “Codsworth?!” The shout bounds forth from her chest with hope. 

     “As I live and breathe…Oh! It’s…It’s _really_ you!” The robot declares. Nora would throw her arms around the Mr. Handy if his metal limbs weren’t dangerously in the way. 

     “Codsworth! What happened…to the world?” 

     “The world, m’um? Well, aside from our geraniums being the envy of Sanctuary Hills, things have been rather dull around here in your absence.” He replies in that ‘keep calm and carry on’ tone with which he is programmed. “Things will be so much more exciting with the return of yourself and Mr. Drake. Where is your other half, by the by?” 

      Nora sees it play over in her head. Nate pulling back against the bald man, not letting Shaun go. Then, the voice, the bald man’s voice, so deep and layered, _‘I’m only going to tell you once…’_ And that thick red ribbon of blood spreading down her husband’s cold face. 

      “Oh, Codsworth. They…They killed Nate…and, oh Shaun.”

      “Oh, you’re saying such horrible things, m’um. Perhaps you're a bit tired, hmm? Maybe a nice cuppa and a game of charades? Young Shaun does so love that game.”

      “No, Codsworth, listen to me! They took him. They killed Nate and took they Shaun…So  you need to tell me everything you know––anything that can help me find my baby!” 

      “I’m…afraid I don’t know what happened, m’um. The bombs came, and all of you left in such a hurry. And––and, oh, m’um. It’s been just horrible. Two-centuries with no one to talk to––no one to serve!” 

      “ _Two-WHAT?”_ Nora asks in disbelief. 

      “It’s been two hundred years, m’um, since you left. Truly, it’s a blessed miracle you’re standing here now!” Codsworth answers. 

      Nora feels this realization rise from the wasted earth around her. It crawls up her feet and rises to her head. Her composure runs through her hands like sand through a rake, and she is left woozy, beginning to sway. 

      She bends forward, resting her hands on her knees, becoming aware that she’s still shivering, but no longer from the cold. In fact, she’s hardy cold at all anymore. Her hands are clammy and her stomach feels sick. 

      “M’um? Are you alright?” Codsworth questions, managing a surprising air of empathy for a robot. 

      “I uh––I think I’m…panicking.” 

      “Oh, come now, Missus Drake. Take a deep breath. We knew this was coming, yes? ‘Prepare for the inevitable atomic annihilation,’ the television would warn, remember?” 

      “Yes, we knew it would happen…I just––I never expected to survive…and alone…and now it’s been _two hundred years?_ ”

  
     “Oh dear, you’ve gone rather pale, m’um. I see…this is nothing more than…hunger-induced paranoia! Come, let me fix you up a snack!”

      Nora is spinnig the ring on her finger again, feeling, but ignoring, the pain as her new habit rubs raw the skin under the thin metal band. “No, I’m fine. I just need find Shaun. Please, at least tell me there other people still alive.”

      “Yes m’um! Perhaps you should try Concord. Plenty of people there. If my memory serves me, they only pummeled me with sticks a few times before I came back home.”  

_I’m not the only one._

      Huge relief forces Nora to ignore the ‘pummeled with sticks’ part. 

      “Thank you, Codsworth. I’ll head to Concord.” 

      “Do be careful, m’um. The people have grown a bit rough. Do you remember the way there? Across the southern footbridge and past the Red Rocket truck stop.”

      The robot's calm description of places Nora remembers gives her hope that at least parts of this wasteland are similar to the world she remembers. 

     Nora nods and turns, ready to head to Concord. 

     “Oh, wait m’um. I did find this holotape shortly after you left. I believe Mr. Drake meant it as a surprise gift for you…but then everything ‘happened.’”

     The robot disappears into the house and comes back with a small yellow tape. 

     Nora takes the dusty holotape from one of Codsworth's rusty metal appendages and she turns it over in her hands. It has “Hi Honey!” written on the top with marker, Nate’s messy handwriting. She has half a mind to insert it into her Pip Boy and listen immediately, but the weakness in her trembling knees tells her she’s not yet ready. 

     “Thank you, Codsworth.”

     “Be safe, Missus Drake. I shall remain here and secure the homefront!” 

 

Nora - Vault 111 - October 6, 2287 - 11:15

 

     Nate used to tell Nora about power armor before he left for war. “It’s such a rush! It makes you feel invisible…” He would say in geeky awe, after coming home from a training session in the mechanic power suits. She thought his fascination with army gadgets was cute. 

     But as she marches down the cracked asphalt in front of the ruins of Concord’s revolutionary war museum, mowing down a gang of Raiders with a minigun, she no longer finds power armor so ‘cute.’ Nora tries not to think about what the hot bullets from this minigun are doing to the insides of the raiders shooting back at her.  She pictures what she’d seen the Raiders do to the settler’s corpses on the way here––stripping the bodies and hanging men, women, and children by the necks from signs and buildings.  The images make killing easier. She let’s herself believe it’s justice, but this world is not hers. She doesn’t know what these people deserve. 

     Once the Raiders are cleared, Nora releases the trigger and watches the minigun spin down, but as the gun cools, Nora feels the street rumble beneath her feet. A massive roar bellows from a pit in the road a hundred feet ahead. 

_Oh god, what now?_

     A second roar reaches her ears and she watches in horror as a giant, green, clawed hand reaches from the pit and pushes on the cracked street. A scaly, horned beast rises from the pit, scraping grooves into the asphalt as it climbs out with those monstrous claws. 

    “Preston! What the _hell_ is that?!” Nora calls to the man on the balcony of the museum behind her. 

     The young man stands, stunned, on the balcony, laser musket held loosely. 

    “Deathclaw!” He yells back. “Fire! and don’t stop ‘till it’s dead!”

    Nora revs up the minigun and walks backwards while firing, silently praying she doesn’t run out of bullets. 

    Bullets shatter and ricochet off the Deathclaw’s scaled body in very direction. Bursts from Preston’s laser musket slowly eat away at the thick scale plate on the monster’s chest. 

    The beast roars in anger as one of Nora’s bullets finally bursts through the chest plating, but it’s not dead yet. 

    The Deathclaw falls forward and charges toward Nora on all fours, claws leaving deep grooves in the street. 

    Nora fires relentlessly, still walking backwards. She’s running out of road, quickly nearing the museum behind her. The Deathclaw is tearing toward her with impossible speed. 

    The beast’s clawed hand lands on the body of a fallen Raider and blood bursts out under the Deathblow’s weight. The minigun, overheating, revs down on it’s own. 

    The beast slides to a stop in front of Nora. Even in full power armor, the Deathclaw towers over her. It stands for a moment growling, imposing. The hole in it’s chest now oozing with dark blood. 

    Nora bellows in fear and rage as a giant clawed hand closes around her mid-section and lifts her off the ground. She can feel her ribs bending to their limit as the power armor closes tightly around her in the Deathclaw's grasp. 

    The minigun has cooled enough and she spins it up again, forcing the barrel directly against the bleeding hole in the creature’s chest, hoping there are enough bullets left to finish this. 

    The minigun fires, tearing into the beast’s chest. The Deathclaw gives a final squeeze before falling to the earth. Nora howls in pain as she feels a rib finally crack under the pressure, the stabbing pain becomes a pounding throb when the Deathclaw dies and its clawed hand relaxes.

 

    Nora lays in the hand of the dead Deathclaw and releases her life-or-death grip on the minigun. The power armor is bent and dented, putting pressure on her cracked rib. 

    She hears the museum door open and Preston and Dogmeat run to her. The frightened companions scurry out of the building behind them.

    The Dogmeat gets to her first.  He stands over her with his heavy paws on her chest. The shepherd's big head tilts with concern and curiosity. 

    “Is she dead?” Sturges, the tech guy, asks.

    “I’m still alive.” Nora breathes, sounding surprised. 

    “Help me get her out of the armor.” Preston says to Sturges. 

    Dogmeat hops out of the way, and the two men left her up. Nora winces at the pain in her ribs. The release the power armor and help Nora out. 

    “Got any stempacks?” Nora asks, holding her hands over the cracked rib. 

    “One. Here.” Sturgess answers, handing her the syringe. 

     Nora replies with a “Thanks.” as she injects the healing serum into her side. The cool numbing effect spreads immediately and Nora is relieved. 

     “That was… a pretty amazing display. I’m just glad you’re on our side.” Preston says. The young minutemen leader gives her a lumpy pouch that jingles when he holds it out. “Hey, we owe you our lives. This is the least we can do to repay you.”

    Nora takes the bag, surprised by it’s weight, and opens it. 

_Bottle caps?_

    “Umm…thank you?” she replies, confused. 

    “Huh huh, it’s what we use for money nowadays.” Preston responds, slightly amused, but also an empathetic expression on his face. 

    “Oh, uh. Then, _thank you._ Very much.” 

    Preston nods and smiles with sincerity. “Listen, I know you’ve got your own problems, but if you ever need a break or want to join our cause, we are headed to an old ruin that, for the longest time, Mama Murphy has had a vision of. Its an old settlement called ‘Sanctuary.’ We’re gunna fix it up. You are more than welcome to join us, anytime.” 

    “No kidding? I used to live there––before––you know…”

    “Oh, well I guess you need no invitation.” Preston replies tentatively, seeing the conversation hit a sore spot. 

     Mama Murphy sways in her chair, then leans forward to interrupt. “No, wait…there’s more to your destiny, isn’t there? I’ve seen it. I know your pain.”

     “Seen it? What do you mean?” Nora asks.

     “You’re out of time. Too late. Out of hope…” There’s something about the way Mama Murphy speaks. The old woman’s words melt from her mouth and fill the air with a dreary haze. Nora is drawn in. Somehow, she finds herself trusting this woman.  “…but I can feel your son’s energy. He’s alive.”

_Shaun._

     “Where? Where is he?” Nora feels the rush of hope. 

      “The sight, it’s weird and it ain’t always clear…but even I don’t need the sight to tell you where to start lookin’. The Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth. Diamond City.” 

     “How do I get there?” 

      Preston interrupts, “It’s southeast of here. Follow the main roads into the city ruins and the diamond signs will lead you there.” 

_It’s not much, but it’s more than I had a few hours ago._

     “Thank you, Mama Murphy. Can you tell me if Shaun is there? Is he safe?”

     The old woman’s rests back in her chair and closes her hooded eyes. She doesn’t open them when she speaks again, “Look, kid, I’m tired now. Chems give me the sight. Maybe if you bring me more chems, the sight will paint a clearer picture.”

     Nora thanks Preston and Sturges again for the caps and stempack, and she says a silent ‘thank you’ to the day for proving to her that a little human decency has managed to survive total atomic annihilation. 

     Then, she scavenges a few pieces of armor, some bullets, a second pistol, and more caps off the bodies of the Raiders. She suits up, says another goodbye to the Minutemen, and calls Dogmeat to a heel. The two start their trek southeast toward Diamond City. 

 _He’s alive._ Nora doesn’t make a decision to believe Mama Murphy’s visions, she simple just believes. _He’s alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there with me, guys! I think Mac and Nora should be meeting in about three chapters, but I haven't decided who's perspective to tell the meeting from yet.  
> It's going to be a bumpy road, but I'm excited for their personalities to really start developing.  
> I'm also looking forward to adding more of Dogmeat. I have a german shepherd, myself, so I hope to do the big guy justice.


	9. The Great Pretender

MacCready - Commonwealth - July 20, 2287

 

      MacCready looks through the scope of his rifle at the large building 70 yards away. He reads the bold title on the facility’s face. 

      “Med-Tek Research.” 

      He scans the area in front of the building.

      One, two….seven feral ghouls skulk around the front of the building. There’s probably more around back, and with his luck, Mac guesses the building is infested inside.

      “Shit––I mean, crap. This is gunna _suck_.” He whispers to himself. 

      He removes the scope from his eye and takes a carefully folded piece of paper out of his pocket. The paper is warn and has clearly been folded and refolded many times. Mac has spent hours analyzing this piece of paper––the only shred of hope he’s found since leaving Duncan in the Capital Wasteland. He unfolds the paper and turns so that his back is to the sun, shielding the bright reflection so he can read the note again. 

_Med-Tek is a pre-war medical research and pharmaceutical manufacturing facility located a day’s walk north of Goodneighbor in the Commonwealth. You’re looking for a blue serum called Prevent. It’s the only drug with a chance of beating whatever killed my partner and has your boy. The only place to find it is in the sub-level lab, but the whole building is closed up in ‘emergency lockdown.’_

_You’ll have to look for the executive’s terminal on the third floor to override the lockdown security and open up the sub-level. The password to Jacob’s terminal is ‘FO1VTLRA.’_

_I wish you the best of luck, MacCready, for your son’s sake,_

_Wilson Sinclair._

      Mac carefully folds the paper up and places it in the pocket of his duster. 

      He pats the pocket on the other side gently, feeling the little toy soldier he keeps there always. 

      “For you, Duncan.” He says to himself. 

      He replaces the scope on his eye and counts the feral ghouls again. Still seven. He ignores the nervous knot in his stomach and the phantom pressure squeezing the scar around his left leg––his painful reminder of a night in a subway almost five years ago. 

      He takes a deep breath. _No problem…this’ll be a piece of cake._ He tries hard to convince himself. 

      Mac is kneeling on the roof of a small building 70 yards away from Med-Tek. He knows that even after the first shot from his rifle alerts them, there’s no way the ferals can make it up here, but they will be much harder to hit if they run around in panic. 

 _Enough stalling_. 

      He lines up one of the withered creatures in his sights and holds his breath. 

_Killshot._

      The ghoul’s head explodes, spraying that thick irradiated blood Mac has seen far too much of in his young life. There are still places on his tan duster that are darkened from the gooey substance. 

      The other six ferals fling themselves madly in all directions, searching for the source of the attack. Mac’s reflexes are like razorblades, his focus solid. There’s no wind. The lighting is good. The creatures don’t stand a chance. 

      Mac lines up one after a another, and the ferals’ heads explode in the order he commands. 

      When all seven lie dead and bleeding in front of the building, Mac holds still, waiting for any stragglers that might’ve been hiding. 

      A few seconds pass and nothing. 

      He stands and slings his rifle over his shoulder, then takes his hat off to muss his hair. He’s little sweaty from the Wasteland’s summer heat and the anxiety of knowing what comes next. Close quarters. 

      His left leg limps slightly as he makes his way to the building’d entrance, sore from so much travel. He hasn’t stopped scouring the Commonwealth for information since arriving four months ago. 

      He repeats Sinclair’s instructions over in his head as he walks. 

_Executive’s terminal is on the third floor._

_Password is “FO1VTLRA” to override security._

_Prevent is in the sub-level lab._

      There’s no way for Mac to convince himself that this part will be easy. 

      The truth is, close quarters scares the hell out of him, especially with feral ghouls. He’s made a strict point to avoid the creatures…after what he’s seen them do. To himself. To Lucy.

      Before opening the door to Med-Tek, Mac checks the ammo for his close range weapons to be safe. 

      Eight buck-shot for his shotgun. Thirty-seven 10mm for his pistol. Twenty-four .44 for the snub nose, and there’s a combat knife in his belt if worse comes to worse. 

      Ammo is great, but time and space to reload with be better. 

     Mac decides to start with the 10mm. 

      He rubs the sweat off his brow with a dirty sleeve and straightens his hat, then slowly opens the doors to Med-Tek research. 

 

      _Just as fuc—freaking expected._  Even in just the lobby, Mac instantly counts six ferals, which are altered to his presence just as quickly. 

     Mac’s heart could pound out if his chest. 

     Even without range and a scope, Mac’s aim is stellar. Three killshots—three feral ghouls drop without hesitation, but two more enter the lobby, startled by the commotion. 

     The clip for Mac’s 10mm holds twelve bullets. He has nine left. 

    Mac drops another feral as the other four begin the expected, flailing, panicked rush in all directions.  Eight bullets left until he has to reload or switch to the shotgun. 

    Mac’s eyes dart around the room, searching for the best target, he sees stars in the corners of his eyes and realizes he’s been holding his breath. 

    A large feral in a tattered lab coat decides Mac’s target for him as it runs straight for him, arms stretched forward, decaying fingers snapping together. Mac fires the 10mm twice in panic and misses both times, then scrambles of the way just in time as the creature leaps at him. The feral slams hard into the front doors in Mac’s absence, then writhes on the floor like a turtle on its back. The feral grabs Mac’s pant leg with a thrashing arm and causes Mac to fall backwards and slam his head on the reception dest, dropping the pistol in the process. 

    Mac feels hot liquid drip down the back of his neck. Blood. His vision is tunneled. 

    His arms move slower than commanded as he takes out his shotgun and shoots the feral ghoul that still holds his foot, releasing a spray of that remembered stench of irradiated ghoul blood. Three shots left in the shotgun. Mac counts four frenzied black ghouls moving through his blurred vision. Two of them running straight toward him. 

_Dammit._

    He fires twice, aiming from the hip. 

    One feral falls, the other’s arm comes off, leaving another coating of gooey black blood on the floor. Another shot and it falls. 

    The two remaining ghouls trip and writhe over the fallen corpses, moving toward Mac. He takes out the snob nose and empties all six shots into their bodies, adding to the stinking, oozing congregation on the floor. 

    The lobby has gone quiet. 

    Mac’s head throbs and his vision has yet to return to normal. 

    He finds his 10mm under one of the feral’s bodies and leans against the reception desk to reload everything. 

    He’s loading a second .44 onto the snub nose when a raspy breath raises the hairs on the back of his neck. 

    Without time to react, Mac is pulled back against the reception desk by the scabbed, decaying arms of a feral, which has wrapped them firmly around Mac’s neck. The feral grunts and spits in his ear, then bites down on his shoulder, not breaking through the fabric of his duster, but undoubtedly bruising the muscle. 

    Mac struggles against the creatures grasp as it gnaws at his shoulder, but the feral has a calloused hand around his throat that tightens, cutting off his air. Mac gasps against the pressure around his throat and the darkness clouds his vision further. White specks dance in the corners of his obscured sight. 

    He pulls against the feral’s arms with one hand, and feels for the combat knife in his belt with the other, arms beginning to feel weaker. 

    Balancing dangerously on the edge of unconsciousness, Mac locates the knife in his belt and wrenches it up toward the feral’s neck, the angle extremely awkward and his need for oxygen growing dire. 

    Fighting to stay awake, Mac struggles to tilt the knife, ready for entrance into the feral’s exposed neck, but out of the constant guttural grunts of the feral and his own frantic gasps for air, Mac swears a sudden raspy, whispering voice creeps through the animalistic wheezing and into his ear. The voice freezes Mac’s hands where they are. 

    “You. Should. Have. Died.

    “With her.”

    Mac feels his chest imploding and the blackness closes his vision completely.

     Just as Mac’s arms begin falling to his sides, the feral hand on his throat releases. He is brought back to consciousness by a fiery pain in his shoulder––a pain he has experiences once before, five years ago.  Mac yells out as the feral has finally ripped through his duster and shirt to tear into his shoulder muscle with blunted teeth. 

     Awakened newly by the pain, Mac brings the knife up and shoves it deep into the feral ghoul’s neck, black blood squirts out, making Mac’s stomach sick. 

    The ghoul falls back behind the desk and Mac inhales full, pained breaths, feeling his body coming slowly back to life. 

    Tears of physical pain wet his face.

    He grabs his guns and limps out of the building, bleeding and still fighting unconsciousness, but still alive. 

 

MacCready - The Third Rail, Goodneighbor - August 6, 2287

 

    Magnolia’s charming voice, loud music and the smell of alcohol fill the atmosphere of Goodneighbor’s underground pub, The Third Rail, making it the most addicting place for the common Wastelanders to forget their weekly existential crises. 

Magnolia dances smoothly on stage, her voice treats the hollow hearts of Goodneighbor’s drifters with the lyrics of The Platter’s “The Great Pretender.” 

_Oh-oh yes, I’m the Great Pretender._

_Pretending that I’m doing well._

_My need it such, I pretend to much_

_I’m lonely, but no one can tell._

 

    “Another round for myself and the lady!” Mac yells the order to Whitechapel Charlie quite a bit louder than necessary. 

     He sits half-way on a stool at the bar, an empty beer in one hand, and his other arm swung loosely around an equally drunk Wastelander woman sitting in the bar stool next to him. She is thin and harsh. Her fair hair floats around her head in wispy stings. She’s missing teeth and has cracked lips. She is not attractive. 

    “Sorry, mate. I’m cutting you off, like I should’ve done two shots ago.” The Cockney-English accented Mr. Handy replies. 

    “Oh, come on… _Mate, uh, mu-Mateeey._ I’m not drunk.” Mac whines, leaning over the bar, toward the robot. 

     “You are drunk, _mate._ In fact, you’re too pissed even to count that scavver girl’s teeth you’re getting friendly with. I’ll give you a hint: less than half.” 

     “Huh! Whatever…you’re just a dumb robot Mongo!” Mac drops a handful of caps on the bar and slides off his barstool. The scavver girl goes to follow him, but he puts his hand out to stop her. “Ol’ _Matey_ is right. You would be a mistake.” He turns and walks toward the stars before she can reply. She doesn’t follow him. 

     It takes Mac’s drunk legs an embarrassing amount of time to get up the stairs. 

     “MacCready.” The well-dressed, ghoul bouncer acknowledges Mac as he gets to the exit. 

     “Ham.” Mac say, nodding, as he opens the door and it met with the cool night air and the smell of Goodneighbor’s city filth. 

    Mac has no plan for where he’s going tonight. He just follows his drunk feet as they zigzag through the streets of Goodneighbor. He stops for a smoke and fumbles around with a pack of matches, coordination suffering. 

_Crap._

     He drops the matched and nearly fall on his face trying to pick them up. When he gets back upright, a Goodneighbor security guard––a ghoul––is standing close by, watching. But, Mac it too far gone to tell who, or what, the hell he is. 

     Mac squints at the man in front of him and sees the rough skin and lack of a nose. 

     “You!” Mac yells with anger in his voice, dropping the pack of cigarettes again, but his attention is on the ghoul. 

     “Talkin’ to me, brother?” The ghoul’s scratchy voice replies passively, curious, but also not wanting his time wasted by some random drunk. 

     Mac walk up and squints at the man’s face, then shoves a finder into his chest, “You should've killed me.” He slurs at the ghoul.

     Irritated, the ghoul removes Mac’s accusing finger from his chest and replies, “And who the fuck are you?” 

     “You know. You should've killed me when you killed her!” Mac’s face is reddened with alcohol and becoming even more flush. He shove the finger back into the ghoul. 

     “I don’t know you, brother. But you should take you hand off me before you lose it.” The ghoul states, calm and collected, and very serious. 

     “Ooohhh yeah, you would _love_ that. Taking another piece of me and leaving me to live without it.” Mac accuses, getting right up in the ghoul’s face. 

     “You better go sleep this off in the Rex before you get yourself into trouble,” the ghoul warns, becoming angered by Mac’s senseless persistence. 

     “Why don't you just _kill me nooowww?”_

     Mac shoves the ghoul back with both hands. 

     “Don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you,” the ghoul punches Mac hard, most definitely sprouting a black eye that’ll last a few days. 

     Mac falls back and hits the dirt, seeing stars. 

     He struggles to his feet, but sways, his face hot, cold sweat. 

     “Oh, shit.” The ghoul doesn’t step back fast enough as the evidence of Mac’s drinking erupts and lands on the ghoul’s shoes. 

     The punch snapped Mac out of his delusion and he realized what happened. 

     “Sorry––I—uh….sorry.” 

     Satisfied by the swelling forming around Mac’s eyes, the ghoul just grunts and walks away, toward the nearest guard barracks. 

 

    Mac stands alone in the streets of Goodneighbor, unsure what to do with the condition of his existence. He hears Magnolia’s comforting voice play in those limp heart strings. 

_Oh-oh yes, I’m the Great Pretender._

_A drift in a world of my own._

_I’ve played the game,_

_but to my real shame,_

_you’ve left me to grieve on my own._

Being alone sucks. 

 

     “Hey, MacCready? That you?” The raspy voice of a female ghoul calls from behind him. 

     “Daisy? Yeah, it’s me.” He answers, turning toward her shop. 

     “Hey, darlin,’ I picked up a letter from the caravan stop today. It’s for you. Probably an update on Duncan.” 

     Mac’s stomach flips, threatening another spill. 

     He runs, albeit rather clumsily, to Daisy and takes the weathered note. 

     He opens it but the letters swim around on the page. At this rate, he’ll be drunk well into morning. 

     “Uh…I’m to drunk to to…” He says, embarrassed. 

    Daisy sighs, sympathetically. “Give it here, hun.” 

    She reads silently for a moment. 

     “Well?” Mac questions, nervous. 

    “More of the same.” She says, shaking her head, “He wakes only to eat twice a day. The blue boils have started popping up on his feet. He still coughs, feverish…I’m so sorry, hun.”

    Mac walks backward and supports himself against the doorframe. 

     “Yeah…me too.” He replies with a shaky, high voice. 

     He pictures Duncan, so ill and without his father, without his mother. Tears run down and sting over his bruised eye at the possibility of Duncan dying alone in the Capital Wasteland. 

     “Thanks, Daisy.” He says, then stumbles his way to his room at the Hotel Rexford to sleep it off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor MacCready. He gets a little pitiful in this chapter, but the Wasteland will do that to a guy.


	10. Goodneighbor

Nora - Commonwealth  - October  6, 2287 

 

     In May of 2072, when Nora was twenty-one, she was on her way from Suffolk University Law School in Boston to the US Army Garrison at Fort Devons, where she would visit Private Nate Drake, her boyfriend at the time.  

     Nora did not make it to the US Army Garrison at Fort Devons on that drive. 

     A third of the way through the drive, Nora’s car was hit by a truck and pushed into a median. Her car was totaled and she was driven in a ambulance to the hospital where she was treated for a concussion and a broken wrist.  

     The car crash in May of 2027 resulted in the most physical injury Nora would ever experience until waking up in the Post-War Wastelands of the Commonwealth in the year 2287. 

     Since walking up in the Commonwealth, Nora has been constantly bruised and/or bleeding in various places. She has broken a rib and injected herself with stempacks. She has rubbed the ring-finger of her left hand raw with the obsessive spinning of her husband’s wedding band, which still feels cold despite having being worn on her finger for two days. 

     And she has killed. 

     She has killed creatures with names like “Radroach” and “Deathclaw.” 

     She has killed humans that call themselves “Raiders.”

     And most disturbing yet, she has killed things that used to be people––people from before the war. “Feral Ghouls,” as Preston has called them, are the zombified remains of people who’s brains have been rotted by radiation. Nora met these monsters in Lexington where they infested the ruins. To show for it, the right forearm of her vault suit is torn open, bloody, she has a dirty strip of cloth tied tightly over the wound, and she is low on ammo.

     She thinks about these things as she walks, trying her best to follow what is left of the broken roads through the ruins of Boston. She’d like to think there’s a magnetic force pulling her toward her son’s living energy––something that can’t be described––that binds mother and son together for eternity––but there is no such force. Nora has been blindly wondering the cracked streets of Boston for hours, the sun is setting fast, and her muscles ache with a unique stiffness that comes only from being frozen in a cryo-pod for two hundred and ten years. 

     Dogmeat isn’t even any help. The shepherd zigzags ahead of her, checking scents sporadically located an either side of the road. 

     Preston told her to enter the city by the main road and follow the diamond signs to find Diamond City, simple enough instructions, but what was once the “main road” into Boston to Nora, is apparently no longer the same road. Nora has been wondering the city for hours and has seen no diamond signs. 

     Other than the faint echo of gunfire bouncing through the city alleys from unidentifiable directions, the first evidence of intelligent human life appears scribbled in white on the corner of a crumbling building. She squints through the darkening shadows of the city and reads the hurriedly painted warning: _DANGER AHEAD. DO NOT ENTER THE COMMON._

 _The Boston Common!_ Nora remembers the park from before the war, but what she sees as she walks around the warning on the wall is an overgrown, irradiated park, as equally decrepit as the rest of the Wasteland. 

     The Common doesn’t look particularly dangerous, especially after what Nora has seen. _It doesn’t look particularly inviting either._ She thinks, noticing more warning signs plastered on the iron fence around the park. Plus, feeling the sting under the bandage on her arm and remember her low ammo, she decides to cut wide of the park, heeding the wall’s warning.

     Dogmeat whines nervously as they come close to the park’s entrance, his hackles slightly raised. 

     Nora walks drowsily along the outside of the Common, until a sudden movement from the park startles her into almost tripping over a disintegrating concrete curb.

     “Good evening, Patriot, and welcome to the Boston Common, the start of the Freedom Trail.” A Pre-War protectron-model robot waddles out of the park toward Nora. It’s voice is accent-less and robotic, the pitch rises and falls inconstantly as it plays out the recorded script. 

    Still deciding whether to run or ask the robot for directions, Nora notices a sign behind the tourbot. It reads: 

_At journeys end_

_follow freedoms lantern._

    The robot must have forgot Nora was there and then realized she was again during the brief span she took to squint through the darkness to read the sign, because it restates itself. 

    “Good evening, Patriot, and welcome to the Boston Common, the start of the Freedom Trail.”

    Dogmeat plasters himself up again Nora’s side, his head tilting as the the robot talks. She pats him between the ears. 

    Assuming that the robot is a Pre-war tour guide, but not quite sure what the hell “Freedom’s Lantern” means, Nora decides the logical thing to do is ask for directions and hope it doesn't end in her violent death. She surpasses the part of her that pitifully hopes for that.

    “Yeah, hello. Um…can you give me directions to Diamond city?” Her caution draws out the question. 

    A brief pause.

    “Error. Response not recognized. Welcome, patriot, to the Boston Common, the start of the Freedom Trail.”

    “Okay, you said that.” _Definitely not going to kill me, but also won’t be any help._ Her suppressed self-pity points out that this is worse case scenario on both accounts. She pushes the thought back down and decides to carry on wondering the city on her own. 

    The tourbot continues talking as she walks away. “Feast your ears and learn more about the historic Freedom Trail…”

    As the robotic voice drown out behind her, she feels and pang of sympathy for her fellow-out-of-time. If the machine could feel loss and hopelessness, then she would understand––she would understand the way no one else in the Commonwealth could. The world where these two belong ended centuries ago, yet here they still are, trying their damn best to carry on even though their logic short-circuits with a stern “Error. Response not recognized” with every encounter in this wasteland. 

    Nora faintly still hears the tourbot rambling away the history of the American Revolution to the vacant air…and she realizes that the robot doesn’t at all understand that it has been two centuries since anyone cared about Lexington, Concord, Paul Revere, and the “Shot heard around the world.” 

    She is alone. 

_I’m projecting on a robot. Good, that’s healthy._

 

    A few minutes later, the sunlight has completely disappeared from the city.  Nora is surrounded by the silhouettes of ruined buildings, black blocks contrasted against a sky of stars brighter than any Nora has ever seen. 

_I guess the lack of global electricity comes with this perk._

    But it’s hard to enjoy a night sky while you’re lost in an irradiated ghost city, and the sounds of gunfire and hysterical shouting echo through the dark shadows, loud enough to be around any corner. 

    Nora’s deprivation of sleep, food, sanity, etc. causes her delirious feet to carry her into the darkness between two buildings. She blindly fiddles with her Pip Boy, assuming it’ll have a light.   Her fingers locate a button. 

    *Click*

    A green glow illuminates the alley from the square screen on her left arm. 

    Nora’s heart jumps to her mouth at the sight if the light's revelation. 

    Three haphazardly armored men stand at the end of the alley. All three are armed heavily––one with a shotgun, one with a pipe-pistol, and the last with a tire iron that has an ax-head crudely fashioned to it––all three weapons aimed at Nora. 

_Raiders._

    The man in the middle with the pipe-pistol smiles. All his front teeth are missing. His tongue flicks at black gums as he speaks. Nora only understands the words “dangerous” and “alone.” She suddenly realizes she has no idea where Dogmeat went. 

    Nora has two 9mm pistols––a total of eight bullets between them, and a switchblade in her boot, not that it’ll be of any use at the moment. 

    A black and white scene from a TV western plays in her head. The outlaw and the sheriff stand across from each other in the town’s center. A tornado of dust swirls between them in the wind. Who can draw faster?

     But she’s already staring down two barrels and a scrawny guy with the tire-iron who has the thing above his head, knuckles white, ready to smash her head in.

     Nora’s good with guns, but not fast enough to hit all three men before they get her. By the time she draws and fires, she could take out one, but the other two would kill her instantly. 

     She can hear blood pumping into her head. Her fingertips tingle with adrenalin. If she fights back, there’s no way she’s getting out of this alive. 

     She’ll have to run. 

     Nora watches her arms raise in false-surrender on their own. Shadows behind the men stretch ominously further behind them as the light from her pip boy elevates. 

     Her breath catches as the men come forward, surrounding her. She expected to be dead by now. Well, she expected to be dead over a hundred years ago. The relativity is somewhat comforting.

     They haven't shot her yet, which means they have no intention of killing her quickly. Nora remembers seeing what the Raiders had done to the bodies of their victims on the way here.  A cold spark runs down her spine. She doesn’t feel like sticking around to learn what they do to victims who are still alive. Especially females.

     The scrawny bladed tire iron Raider steps behind her. He is shorter than her––Nora is only 5’5. He raises his arms to grab Nora’s. She feels his breath on her neck, smells a rot that comes from a lifetime without dental hygiene. 

    Now’s her chance. 

    Nora turns and elbows the scrawny guy in the jaw, sending him into the shotgun-wielding raider to her left. The would in her forearm burns with renewed pain.

    The pistol Raider with no teeth is shocked dumb. He aimlessly swats at Nora with the butt of his gun and lands it against her mouth. She tastes blood. Nora kicks him in the nether regions before he can react again. He crumples to the dirt, whining, but Nora doesn't see this. She is already running. 

    She hears movement gaining momentum behind her. It must be the shotgun Raider. 

    Nora darts into an alleyway and draws her pistol. 

    Just as the Raider nears the corner, he howls in pain. 

    The shotgun slides across the ground into Nora’s view from the alley. The Raider falls hard against the cracked pavement soon after it, moaning and writhing in pain. A large furry blob is growling and tearing away at his forearm.

_Better late than never, Dogmeat._

    Nora walks forward and releases a bullet into the squirming Raider’s head, execution style. She feels nothing for this corpse. 

    Dogmeat spits the Raider’s arm out in disgust as the body goes limp. Nora kneels down and praises the dog. Dogmeat whines, concerned, and licks the blood off Nora’s swelling lip. She forgives him for disappearing. 

     When she stands, she notices a pink neon light illuminating the area at the end of the road. Surrounded by darkness from every other angle, Nora decides the warm light is inviting. 

    The sign hangs above a door on a tattered, but sturdy wall.

     It reads: _Goodneighbor._ A neon arrow extends from underlining the word to point to the door below. 

    Nora’s pre-war brain commandeers her thoughts,’ _Something there is that doesn't love a wall…That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it…Good fences make good neighbors.’_

_Frost._

_I should have majored in English._

    What a silly thought at the end of the world.

    Nora opens the door and is met with the inviting aroma of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and general homeless filth. Dogmeat runs into the city, waging his tail rapidly, and disappears, apparently knowing exactly where he’s going. Nora takes that as a sign the city is safe…er.

    She walks in, but her path is immediately blocked by a large bald man in a tight leather jacket. 

    His voice is gruff and has a slight Boston accent. Nora is surprised the accent has survived two centuries. “Hold up there, doll. First time in Goodneighbor? Can’t go walking around without insurance.”

    “Insurance?” 

     “Yeah, _insurance._ Personal protection, like. You see, heres the deal. You hand over everything you got in them pretty little pockets, or _accidents_ start happening to ya. Big, bloody _accidents_.” 

     Before Nora can respond, a man appears. At least, he’s mostly a man. His skin is dark and scarred. His face is sunken and skeletal. He has no nose, but a bony hole in the center of his face where it should be. His eyes are a solid, deep black. He’s a ghoul.  

     Nora remembers Preston’s warning about feral ghouls. He told her there are also Ghouls with intact brains. The live longer and some where alive before the war. Nora wonders if this man is as old as her. 

     He is wearing an 18th century costume with a long red coat and a tricorn hat. Nora can’t decide of he looks more like a cheesy zombified founding father or a cursed pirate. 

     The ghoul shakes if head and strides toward the bald man. His voice is raspy, “Whoah, whoah, time out, Finn. Someone steps in through the gate the first time, they’re a guest. You lay off that extortion crap.”

     Finn faces the ghoul, he his taller and generally larger, his shoulders broad. “What d’you care. She ain’t one of us.” He answers, a challenging tone in his voice.

    The ghoul doesn’t back down. He stares dead at Finn with back eyes. “You got no love for your mayor, Finn? I said, let her go.” 

     “You’re soft, Hancock. You keep letting outsiders walk all over us, one day there’ll be a new mayor.” The threat is clearly understood. 

     Hancock backs up and raises his hands in a wounded manner. “Come on, man. This is me we’re taking about. Come here, let me tell you somethin.’” 

     Hancock opens his arms to Finn, inviting a hug. As they embrace, the mayor stabs Finn three times in the abdomen. Finn grunts in pain and shock, then sinks to the dirt, bleeding out. 

    Nora feels the blood leave her cheeks. The unexpected death mixed with her exhaustion and hunger make her knees feel weak. 

    Hancock wipes the blood off his knife with a stained handkerchief. “Why’d you have to go and say that, huh? Breaking my heart over here,” he says the body. 

    He walks over to Nora, replacing the knife in his belt. 

    “You alright, sister?”

    “Yes. Thank you, for that.” Nora doesn’t avoid his black eyes, but stares directly into them. Somehow, they seem kind.  

    “Good. Now don't let this incident taint your view of our little community. Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people. You feel me? Everybody’s welcome.”

    Between the cliche motto and the pirate-costumed zombie-mayor, Nora has to stifle a snort at the cheesiness. “‘Of the people, for the people?’ Oh brother…”

    “Heh he he, I can tell I’m gunna like you already. Hotel Rexford is the best place to crash. Just consider this town your home away from home.” 

     Hancock’s face drops in seriousness. The shade from his tricorne hat hiding those black eyes. “So long as you remember who’s in charge.” With that, he turns, stepping over Finn’s body as he walks away.

     Nora spins around, looking for Dogmeat. He must’ve found wherever he was going because he hasn’t come back yet. Deciding the dog can take care of himself, Nora decides to find this “Hotel Rexford,” and hopes that the few hundred caps she’s scavenged is enough for a room and some food. 

 


	11. Deal

MacCready - Goodneighbor  - October  6, 2287

 

     Mac slides a rusty tin box across the front counter in the lobby of the Hotel Rexford. It’s late. He’s been putting this off all day. He’s fifty caps short for his room rent at the Rexford, and this has happened before.

     The old woman standing behind the counter pushes her lips together; they roll forward in an impatient pout. She leans over the counter to pull the tin box toward her. She can tell it’s lighter than it’s supposed to be.  

     Mac holds his cap in one hand and runs the other through his hair. “Sorry, Clair. I’m a little short his week, but I’ll find a job soon, I promise.”

     The woman pulls the corners of her mouth back, the impatient pout reduces to a flat, irritated line. The wrinkles in her dark skin deepen. 

     Clair Hutchins has been working behind the front desk of the Hotel Rexford since before Mac was born. She keeps the place running with a mean-streak that makes him dread coming up short on rent. She takes his pay by the week while he’s looking for a job, but he's having a hard time finding work. No one wants to hire a guy who’s got beef with the Gunners, and between the lack of work, heavy drinking, and regular supply shipments to Duncan, Mac is hard up for caps.

     “MacCready, don’t take this the wrong way, kid, but Markowski will be on both our asses if you’re not payin’ full, and word is around town, you already got a debt with the Gunners. You keep messing with the wrong guys, and you won’t be finding anybody crazy enough to hire you. If you can’t pay, I’m gunna have to fill your room with somebody who can.”

     Markowski, the Hotel’s owner makes old Clair’s mean-streak seem like a warm, sunny smile. 

     “C’mon, Clair. This is over half of what I owe. Just give me another week––nah, here me out––give me one more week, and I’ll pay you back twice-over, got it?” 

_Sh-crap. I won’t make that much in a week._

     Clair pushes out an aggravated sigh and opens the tin box. A decent pile of rusty caps are mounded inside. “Fine. I can push this one under the rug––but only for _one_ week. If you can’t pay by then, you’re Markowski’s problem and I had nothin’ to do with it.” 

     Mac pats the table with the palms of his hands, relieved. “Thank you, Clair.” He gives her a wide, crooked smile and bats a wink with his charming blues. 

     She rolls her eyes. “You’re a whole lotta fuckin’ trouble, MacCready.” 

     “It’s what I’m good at.” He replies, and turns to walk outside. 

     The sun has been down an hour, but screw sleep. Mac is going to The Third Rail to find any drifters in over their heads with enough caps to pay him for the job. 

     Someone slams into Mac’s chest as soon as he steps outside the Rexford. The sudden force sends him backwards against the hotel’s door. The woman who ran into him holds herself up by the collar of his coat. 

     The woman awkwardly detaches herself from him.She pulls her left arm against her, sucking air in through her teeth in pain. She wears patchy Raider armor over a fresh blue vault-suit. Mac notices the bloody strip of fabric tied tightly over a torn place on the forearm of her vault-suit.

     She has that wide eyed, fresh-out-the-vault look. Mac has seen it once before…some lone wonderer many years ago in Little Lamplight. The look of a Vault-dweller is tired and scared. She has pale skin, large dark eyes, anda swollen, bloody lip.. Small freckles lightly dust her cheeks. She hasn’t been on the surface long. 

 _She’s kinda pretty._ Mac ignores the thought. 

     “Uh, sorry.” He says awkwardly. 

     “Oh, no, no. It was my fault. I’m sorry.” She insists. 

     “If you’re headed in the Rex, talk to Fred Allen. He sells bandages––for your arm, I mean.”

     “Oh, thanks. Will do.” 

     Mac steps back and holds the door for her, letting the vault-dweller enter the Rexford. 

     She seems surprised by this gesture, mumbles a “thanks” through an embarrassed smile, and walks in. 

     Mac checks his pockets for a cigarette and lights a match. He smokes as he walks to The Third Rail. 

      Mac feels vibrations from the music downstairs ripple through the door as he opens it. Magnolia’s smooth voice fills the air as soon as he steps inside. 

     The sharp-dressed ghoul at the top of the stairs acknowledges Mac with a flat and raspy, “MacCready.” 

     Mac nods and walks up to him. “Ham,” he says, pulling out a few caps. “Tell any scrappers I’m in the lounge.” He drops them into the ghoul’s open hand. Mac’s primary source of pay in Goodneighbor comes from drunken arguments between drifters. Most’ll hire him as a bodyguard for a night or two. By the end of each job, Mac usually gets a small stash of caps and a few extra reasons to sleep with one eye open out of the deal. 

     “Will do.” Ham nods and puts the caps into his jacket. 

     Mac heads down the stairs. Music bounces between the close walls on the way down, and the glow of neon lights streaks through cigarette smoke. Mac pulls his cap down, shielding his eyes from the dirty air. He has a headache. 

     The night is young, but the bar is already crowded and smelling of alcohol and jet. It’s a nice night. Mac hopes someone will want somebody else dead before it’s done. 

     He wonders through the crowd of drifters, ghouls, scavvers, and chem-addicts, to the back of the building. A dirty sign with a hand drawn “V.I.P” hangs over the doorless opening to a small room dimly lit with a red glow. Mac walks in and leans back into a tattered chair. He pulls a little wooden toy soldier out of his coat pocket and thinks of Duncan.

     He waits for the night to grow violent. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Nora - Goodneighbor  - October  6, 2287

 

_Nora’s face is just inches from Nate’s. He is pale, motionless. There’s a round, jagged hole in the center of his forehead. She watches a thick red band of blood crawl down her husband’s cold face. The blood is icy, moving slow. She sees herself in its reflection. She wants to cry out. It is too cold. She can’t even shed a tear. She can’t even close her eyes._

_Nora's blood runs colder as Nate’s dead eyes snap open, but they are solid black._

_She stares into the black pits as his face transforms._

_His skin darkens. His hair falls out. His eyes black._

_The band of blood down the center of his face shrinks and crawls to the side, sinking into the skin, becoming a deep scar that runs from above his eyes, into his cheek._

_This face is no longer Nates, but a bald, scarred man with dark eyes and a deep voice, layered with something inhuman…mechanical._

_“At least we still have the backup.” he says._

_The blackness from his eyes reaches outward, filling Nora’s sight in a cloud of dark smoke._

_Then, all is black._

 

     Nora wakes up in cold sweat on a dirty, sheetless mattress, staring at the crumbling ceiling of her room at the Hotel Rexford. She smells chems and decay.

     She has dreamed of nothing else since waking up in the cry-pod of Vault 111 three days ago. Despite her exhaustion, sleep has not been restful. Nora considers the fact that she has technically been asleep for a little over two-hundred and ten years. 

     She gets up and looks out the room’s little window. The town is darkened by night, but still alive with drifters wondering the streets and ghoul-guards smoking on every corner. 

     She checks her pip-boy; it’s a few minutes after midnight. 

     Her fingers hover over the pip boy’s holotape play button. She turns the pip boy over, a dirty yellow tape is inserted in the slot. It’s spine is visible—a piece of tape labeled “Hi Honey” in her husband’s handwriting. 

     She drops the pip boy on the dresser, still unable to press play. 

_God, I would kill for a drink right now._

     She puts on a white tank top and a scavenged pair of jeans and wanders down to the lobby and stands somewhat aimlessly next to the front desk. 

     The old woman who rented the room to her sighs from behind the front desk,“The third rail.” She says. 

     “Sorry, what?” Nora asks, confused. 

     “The best place in the Commonwealth to drink yourself blind, hun, and the jewel of Goodneighbor. Looks like you could use it.” The woman says, matter of factly. 

     So, that’s where Nora goes. 

 

     A ghoul in a tux greets Nora as she walks into “The Third Rail,” a building that used to be a subway station, some two centuries ago. 

     “Hancock says newcomers are welcome in The Third Rail. Go on in.” The bouncer says in what Nora has discovered is the standard raspy ghoul voice. 

     She nods and heads down the stairs. Smooth jazz floats through the walls. 

     A woman in a red dress dances and sings on stage, drifters and dirty wastelanders are clustered around tables, empty beer bottles roll around the floor, and a rusty Mr. Handy works behind the bar.  

     The sultry singer winks at Nora as she walks up to the bar. The Mr. Handy floats over to her.  “Oi. We got beer. If you ain’t buying beer, you ain’t buying.” The robot has a cockney accent, a bowler hat, and a union jack sticker on his front. 

 _Where was this model when we bought Codsworth?_ Nora thinks, amused. 

     “Oh, I’m buyin.’” Nora replies. 

     “Five caps.” The robot bartender says and Nora drops them on the counter in exchange for a lukewarm beer in a dusty bottle. 

 

     A few beers later, Nora has learned the bartender is named Whitechapel Charlie, the singer is Magnolia, the place is owned by Mayor Hancock, and there’s not a single person in here that knows about a bald man with a scar, a stolen baby boy, and a voice that haunts Nora’s dreams.  

     Nora is about to head back to her room at the Rexford when a couple armed men cross her path, heading to a back room labeled “VIP.” The one leading is tall and muscular. His head is shaved on the sides with a waft of greasy brown hair on top. He wears a green military jacket with a leather harness over his shoulders and chest, bullets strapped to it, and he has enough scars on his hands, neck, and face to show his long history of starting trouble. The other man is larger than the leader and has dark skin, sunglasses, a heavy shotgun holstered on his side, and a green bandana with a white skull tied around his bicep. Both men are in their early thirties, with some serious city miles between them, and both wear faces that say, “my dick is bigger than yours.”

_Assholes._

     Nora’s tipsy curiosity tells her to follow them into the “VIP” room. With only restless nightmares and a morning hangover to look forward to, she listens. 

     She hears their voices from inside the dimly lit lounge as she lurks toward the entrance. She hides behind a naked plastic mannequin to eavesdrop. 

     The leading man talks first. “Can’t say I’m surprised to find you in a dump like this, MacCready.” His voice is deep and almost ghoulish.  

     “I was wondering how long it would take your bloodhounds to track me down, Winlock.” Nora can’t see ‘MacCready,’ who sits in a chair behind the two men, but she immediately recognizes his voice as the young man she ran into at the Hotel Rexford. “It’s been almost four months…don’t tell me you’re getting rusty.” The young man mocks. “Should we take this outside?” 

     From what Nora vaguely remembers of him when running into MacCready, he has a firm chest, but isn’t exceptionally tall, maybe right at 6ft, but not nearly as large as Winlock and his pal. She has no idea what MacCready did to piss them off, but chances are, if they “take this outside,” MacCready isn’t going to win that fight. 

     “It ain’t like that,” Winlock answers calmly, “I’m just here to deliver a message.”

     Nora hears MacCready stand. “In case you forgot, I paid my ‘debt’ and left the Gunners for good.” Nora hears a match strike as he lights a cigarette. 

     “Yeah, I heard. But you’re still taking jobs in the Commonwealth. That isn’t going to work for us.”

     “I don’t take orders from you. Not anymore. So, why don’t you take your _girlfriend_ and walk out of here while you still can.” 

_Damn. This MacCready’s got balls._

     Winlock’s shotgun packin’ follower, who has been quiet up until now, replies, “What? Winlock, tell me we don’t have to listen to this shit…” 

     Winlock waves an irritated hand to his partner, “Listen up, MacCready. The only reason we haven’t filled your body with bullets is that we don’t want a war with Goodneighbor. See, we respect other people’s boundaries. We know how to play the game. Something you never learned.” 

     “Glad to have disappointed you.” Nora can hear the smirk in MacCready’s voice. 

     “You swore to me once that you wouldn’t. You can hide behind Hancock and play the tough guy all you want, but if we hear you’re still operating inside Gunner territory, all bets are off, you got that?” 

     “You finished?”

     “Yeah…we’re finished. Come on, Barnes.” 

     Barnes spits toward the corner before they walk out. Winlock scowls as he passes Nora in the short hallway. 

_Well, fuck you too._

     Once the two men are gone, Nora’s eager—drunk—curiosity carries her into the VIP room. The room is full of dirty old furniture and a couple Nuka-cola machines. The whole room glows with a soft pinkish-red light from a string of neon lanterns hung across the ceiling. MacCready sinks back into his chair and draws through his cigarette, then lets the breath out slow. Nora hopes he won’t remember her slamming into him earlier. 

     “Look, lady. If you’re preaching about the Atom or looking for a friend, then you’ve got the wrong guy. If you’ve got a job and caps to pay, then we can talk.” He says, examining the sump of ashes about to fall from his cig. 

     Still unsure what his line of work entails, Nora innocently asks, “A job?”

     “You have anybody or anything you want dead?”

 _Ah, a gun for hire, of course._ Nora notices the bullets strapped in a band around his though, and the couple in the brim of his green cap. She feels dumb for not realizing it earlier, but a mercenary wasn’t a commonplace profession before the war. 

     “Oh, you’re a mercenary?” 

     “By golly, she guessed it!” Nora appreciates his sarcasm. “And you’re a vault-dweller.”

      He’s more perceptive than her, it would seem. “That obvious?” 

      “Between that blue suit from earlier and the general fish-out-of-water look, it was an easy guess. How long you been out?”

      Nora feels the blood in her already alcohol-flushed cheeks as he admits to remembering the awkward encounter at the Rexford. “So, you remember that…Um, it’s getting close to three days now.”

      “Huh. Doesn’t look like the Wasteland has treated you well so far…”He leans forward in his chair, blue eyes looking up from under the bill of his cap. “Well, you’re looking at the sharpest shooter in the Commonwealth, name’s MacCready.” He lets out another puff of smoke, and stands up. 

     Nora gets her first clear look at him. 

     He is lean and toned. He wears a green shirt and scarf with a torn up tan duster overtop. The left sleeve is rolled up, the right is torn off at the shoulder seem. He stands with his weigh shifted slightly more on his left leg. He brings a cigarette up to his lips with long, large knuckled fingers. His light brown hair sticks out under a green cap, a light goatee dusts his chin and jaw, and bright, pricing blue eyes shine through the shade from under the bill of his cap. He’s young, maybe a year or two younger than Nora. 

     He’s handsome. Nora’s a little drunk, but her sober self couldn’t disagree. 

 _Sharpest shooter in the Commonwealth, huh?_ After what she’s seen out there, and possibly from her beer-induced lack of inhibition, Nora doesn’t hesitate. Plus, he _is_ handsome. She feels guilty for thinking it and tries to shut her drunk thoughts up…but if anything, having him around would be a decent distraction. 

     “How much d’you charge?” She asks. 

     “250 caps up front. Per month. Non-negotiable.”

     “Everthing’s negotiable.”

     MacCready grins. His smile is crooked. “Fine. 200.” 

     “Maybe. Tell me who those guys were first.”

      He sighs, “Just a couple of morons looking to climb the ladder of success by stepping on everyone else on the way up. But that’s just how the Gunners operate.” 

     “I’m new here. Who are the Gunners?” 

     “One of the biggest gangs in the Commonwealth. Got a rep’ for being crazy—you know, so tightly wound, you’d think they were a gang or somethin.’ Stuck with them for a while because the caps were good, but I never really fit in. I made a clean break and started flying solo. Hey, what about you? How do I know I won’t end up with a knife in my back?” 

     “I guess you don’t. That’s part of the risk, right?”

     MacCready smiles at that. “Can’t argue there.” 

     “So, 200 caps. Deal?” 

     MacCready drops his finished cigarette stump and snuffs it with his boot, “Deal.” They shake on it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! The dream team finally meets. Thanks, as always, for reading and taking time to leave kudos. I really appreciate it!


	12. The Great Green Jewel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kind of a short chapter. I just had to get them to Diamond City so things can start picking up. Anyway, thanks again for reading; hope you enjoy!
> 
> Oh, fun fact: I taught my shepherd the same trick as Dogmeat and it's way too cute! :D

MacCready - Goodneighbor _-_ October  7, 2287 

      Early mornings in Goodneighbor are the expected juxtaposition of late nights in Goodneighbor. The night life of the town is busy with the rumbling of chem-hazed drifters, drunken brawls, sultry music, and a peaceful alcoholic numbness that blankets the town with a warm, comforting weight. The town’s misfit inhabitants wander the neon-illuminated darkness of a post-war night as their broken hearts thump as one. Everyone here has loneliness in common, and at night, the weak beating of Goodneighbor’s heart fuels a variety of poisons that make the people forget who they are and who they don’t want to be.  

      So, during the early mornings of Goodnighbor, the heartbeat that keeps the night alive hides deep beneath that blanket of numbness that the people worked so hard to develop under the cover of darkness. The town, having only gone to rest a few hours prior to the sun’s return, sleeps noiselessly until the light has reached the brightest spot in the sky, at which point, the people begin to wake and realize they can feel again. The light of day reawakens their feelings of pain, loss, and loneliness. Thus, the drifters, brawlers, and wanderers must begin their work again, through the night, to rebuild the town’s blanket of numbness…until the next day comes to remind them who they are. 

      This is the first sober morning MacCready has spent in Goodneighbor in weeks. He stands under the glowing morning sun, alone, aside from a dog that appears to be the only other sober inhabitant of Goodneighbor’s morning streets. 

      Mac didn’t contribute the the town’s developing numbness last night due to his lack of caps and the responsibility of functioning for his first solid job in months. The caps from the Vault-dweller will pay his fee to the Rexford, but he’s gunna need a lot more to get Winlock and Barnes off his ass. 

      He has been standing in front of the hotel, throwing a baseball for the dog to fetch since the sun first started lightening up the sky, a half hour ago.  He wears his standard merc-gear— Armed to the teeth: pistols, shotgun, knives, ammo strapped in easy-access locations, binoculars, and his trusty rifle is slung on his back with a shoulder strap. 

      He sees the sun peeking bright over the city ruins. The day is warming up.

_Where the hell is she?_

      Mac has never been hired by a vault-dweller, but before disappearing into the Rexford last night, she said his first task is to get her safely to Diamond City. Easy enough. Mac has been a to the “Great Green Jewel” a couple of times, but the inhabitants are too jumpy and too comfortable for any real merc-business to take hold. 

      The dog comes running back with the baseball and drops it at Mac’s feet. He picks it up and holds it over the dog’s head. 

      “You know any tricks, boy?” 

      The dogs wags his tail and sits up on his hinds legs, front paws in the air like a gopher. The side of Mac’s mouth pulls up in a satisfied half-smile. 

      “Good boy!” He throws the ball and the dog runs happily after it. 

      The dog catches the ball while it’s still rolling and turns on his heel, full speed back toward Mac, but instead of dropping the ball at his feet again, the dog runs straight past him. 

      “Hey, where’re you go—oh.” 

      The dog drops the ball at the feet of the vault-dweller who has just emerged from the Rexford. He jumps on his hind legs and puts his paws on her shoulders, licking at her cheeks. The woman almost falls backward from the dog’s weight, but catches his paws and rubs his neck happily.  

      “Morning, MacCready.” She says, looking up from patting the dog, who is now sitting on her feet, pawing at the baseball. “Have you two met?”

      “Call me Mac, and no. Is this your dog?” Mac walks over to the front of the hotel. He feels the warm sun on the back of his neck. 

      Nora squints up at him. “Kinda. He’s been following me since I left the Vault. His name’s Dogmeat.” 

      Mac raises an eyebrow, “What kind of name is ‘Dogmeat?’”

      “I didn’t name him. This crazy old lady in Concord told me his name is ‘Dogmeat.’ He seems to respond to it, so…” She rubs the dog’s ear and Dogmeat leans into the messaging fingers, his foot pats the ground with pleasure. “He really seems to like you. I didn’t even know he knew any tricks.” She says to Mac. 

      “Yeah, he's seems pretty smart.” 

       Nora gets up from petting Dogmeat and stretches, then pulls her loose, long brown hair into a ponytail. Mac notices the two shiny wedding bands on her left hand. She has the mismatched, oversized Raider armor strapped loosely over her vault-suit, a pip boy around her left wrist, and a fresh bandage tied around her right forearm. Her lip is no longer scabbed, but has purpled with bruising. 

       Other than the bandaged arm and and bruised lip, she is scarless. Her skin is clear and pale, her cheeks full. _Why the hell’d she leave the Vault?_ Mac wonders, but he’d rather not know. As long as he can keep this relationship professional and profitable, the better. 

      “You ready to head out, Mac?” She asks. 

       “Waitin’ on you, boss.”

       “Oh! I never told you my name…It’s Nora.” Mac doesn't respond. “Um, how far away is Diamond City?” Nora continues, awkwardly. 

        “Not far. About three miles.”

        “Oh,” Nora’s brows draw together as if she’s frustrated by something. She shakes her head and her expression softens. “Well, lead the way.” 

 

      They don’t encounter many problems on the way to Diamond City—just a small pack of mongrels and a some molerats. The streets are too tight from ranges shots, so both Mac and Nora favor their 9mm pistols. 

      Mac notes that Nora, for the most part, is clumsy. A good shot, sure, but her reflexes are slow and she tenses too much when she fires, making the recoil worse than it should be. She stops frequently and inexplicably, pausing at odd times as if recognizing something, but the most commonplace things seem brand new and fascinating to her. She scavenges junk—glue and broken children’s toys—for some reason. Mac just hopes she wont ask him to carry any of that crap. Perhaps strangest of all, she obsessive spins the smooth wedding bands on her left ring finger, rubbing the skin under them raw. She is quiet while they walk, so Mac doesn’t ask about it…not that he would anyway. 

 

         “Fenway Park!” Nora says as they approach Dimond City’s entrance gate. 

         Mac doesn’t respond. He is watching a woman standing in front of the city’s closed gate, in a red coat and news cap, flailing her arms, and yelling in an exasperated tone that is consistent with a specific self-righteous bitch that MacCready has had the misfortune to meet: Piper Wright. 

         Piper argues into the intercom box at the gate. “Ooh! ‘Just doing your job,’ protecting Diamond City means keeping me out, is that it? Oh, its the _scary_ news reporter––boo!”  

        The voice of a young man comes through the intercom bit in a scratchy response, “I’m sorry, but Mayor McDonough’s really steamed, Piper. He’s sayin’ that article you wrote was all lies.” 

        Piper lets out an aggravated grunt and continues throwing her arms around in animated frustration as she argues, “You open this gate right now, Danny Sullivan. I live here! You can’t just lock me out! Open. This. Gate. Right now!” She back away from the intercom box, mumbling to herself. 

        “He probably has a point.” MacCready says as he and Nora near the reporter. 

        “MacCready? What the hell do the Gunners want in Diamond City?” 

        “Nothing. I’m a solo business now.” 

        “I dig up people’s pasts for a living, merc. Shit like that tends to follow you.” 

        “I can take care if myself.”

        Piper crosses her arms and looks at the confused vault dweller behind Mac. “Yeah, just don’t forget to look out for the missus there too, that is if you can place the value of a human life over your own precious caps.” 

         Mac scoffs. “Hey, when are we gunna have that one-on-one interview, Piper?” He says in a mocking tone. 

        “Oh, MacCready. Never in a million years.” Piper responds, rolling her eyes. 

       Piper walks up to Nora. “You want into Diamond City, right?” 

      Nora nods. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” 

     “Ok then, just play along.” 

     Piper walks over to the intercom box and bacons for Nora to follow. She talks to Nora, but loud enough for the guard to hear through the box. “What’s that? You said you’re a trader up from Quincy? You have enough supplies to keep the general store stocked for a whole month? Huh.” 

     The intercom box clicks on, but theres a pause. 

     Piper continues, “You here that Danny? You gunna let us in, or are you gunna be the only talking to crazy McDonough about losing all the supply?” 

     Danny finally answers with a sigh, “Jeez, all right. No need to make is personal, Piper. Give me a minute.” 

     There’s a loud creaking sounds that Mac feels through the concrete beneath his feet as large mechanical braces slowly lift the heavy green gate to the city. 

     “Lets go.” Piper says, and starts walking under the raising gate.

     Mac catches a curious and worried expression on Nora’s face before she follows Piper. _What’s next, boss_? He absently wonders while following them into the city entrance. 

     A short, round man, dressed up in a day coat and a clean fedora is waiting on the other side of the gate. He stands with one hand on his protruding belly, and the other rubs the thick, waxy, groomed mustache over his fat lip. “Who let you back inside? I told Danny to keep that gate shut! The level of dishonesty in that paper of yours––I ought to have that press scrapped for parts!” 

     Piper strides up to the man, on the verge of bursting personal space. “That a statement McDonough? Tyrant Mayor Shuts Down the Press,” Piper makes frames a rectangle with her hands to emphasis the headline, “Why don't we ask the newcomer? Do you support the news? ‘Cause the mayors threatening to throw free speech in the dumpster.” 

     Nora pauses, considering what to say. Mac is hoping she won’t get sucked into the reporter’s fanatic crap. It’s still morning and he’s itching to get moving. Kill something. 

     “I’ve always believed in freedom of the press.” Nora decides to side with Piper. _Super._

     The mayor puts his hands up in courtesy, “Oh, I didn’t mean to bring you into this, good Madam. No, no, no…you look like Diamond City material. Welcome to the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth. Safe. Happy. A fine place to settle down and spend your money.” 

     Piper snorts, cutting in. “Yeah, greatest house of cards in the Commonwealth…until the wind blows.” 

     The mayor laughs nervously, “Was there anything in particular you came for, madam?” He asks Nora.

 _Finally, get to the point._ Mac thinks.

     “I’m just looking for someone.” 

     “Oh-uh…Who––“

     Piper interrupts again, “Missing person? You won’t find any help from Diamond City security.” 

     The mayor waves a hand in another attempt to silence her. “Well, unfortunately, our security team can’t follow every case…but I’m confident you’ll find the help you’re looking for.” 

      “I hope so.” Nora replies. 

      “Head into the city! I’m afraid I must depart, myself. Piper, as of today, consider yourself and that little sister of yours on notice.” The mayor bows awkwardly toward Nora and Mac before turning to leave. 

      “Keep talking, McDonough! That’s all your good for!” Piper yells after him. 

       Mac takes off his hat a musses his hair. _She’s too damn loud._ He replaces his hat and crosses his arms impatiently. The vault-dweller stands quietly, spinning that ring on her sore finger again. 

       Of course, Piper speaks up again. “Hey, I’ve gotta go get settling in, but why don’t you come by my office later? I have an idea for an article you'd be perfect for.” 

      “Thanks for the invite, Piper, but I really need to find someone.”

       “Sure, but the offer stands anytime, Blue.” 

      “Oh, my name’s Nora.” She holds out a hand and they shake. “And seems like you already know Mac.”

      “Our paths have crossed. Anyway, who are you looking for? I know everybody in the city, at least the ones the institute hasn’t taken.” 

      “My son, Shaun. He’s just a baby, less than a year old. He was kidnapped from Vault 111, northeast of Concord.” 

 _That explains why she left the Vault._ Mac thinks. _Why the hell would someone take a baby?_

      Mac blinks through a dull headache. Piper starts telling Nora about her Institute boogeyman theories. 

      Mac thinks about Duncan and drifts apart from the conversation. ‘ _Daddy…? I love you, daddy.’_ Duncan’s voice has been increasingly finding it’s way into Mac’s head during quiet moments. The moments when Mac isn’t drinking himself blind or shooting something. He rubs his eyes with his fingers, seeing his son’s smiling face when he closes his eyes. He feels the brick in his stomach. 

_I miss you, D._

     Mac is snapped back to attention when he hears is name from Nora, “Mac? Hey, do you know this Valentine guy?” 

     His eyes take a second to refocus, he needs sleep. Piper is a few yards away, walking away, toward a building labeled “Publick Occurrences.” 

     “Valentine? Sorry, no. Never heard of him.” Mac replies.

     “Well, I’m going to go talk to him. You should take an hour…I don’t know what happened between now and twenty minutes ago, but you kinda look like shit.”

     “Yeah, just hungry. Meet me at the noodle stand when you’re ready to head out.” 

     She nods and walks into the city, patting her leg for Dogmeat to follow. The dog trots up to her heel and they disappear into the city. 


	13. Unlikely Valentine

 

Nora - Diamond City - October 7, 2287

 

_So, the largest and safest city in the Commonwealth is this stinking pit on the floor of Fenway Park? Good to know…_

     Before arriving in Diamond City, Nora thought she’d adapted enough not to expect anything in this world, but this place? She didn’t expect this. 

     Nora steps cautiously through shallow green puddles of sludgy water as she makes her way toward “Valentines Detective Agency.” The soft ground has sunken under the cities’s weight and the tin sheets laying over the muck have rusted with jagged wholes through them. The city’s housing and business structures are tightly packed, crumbling shacks made of rust and weathered wood.  The residents are composed of equally derelict characteristics; aside from the guards, the inhabitants scurry through the streets, jumping at shadows and peaking around corners, mumbling about synths. Nora passes a withered, graying man in an alley between two buildings. He shrinks, folding his arms around himself as she passes, avoiding eye contact. 

     Nora only spent a day in what she considered the _filth_ of Goodneighbor, but a few minutes into the isolated fearfulness of Diamond City, and she’s actually starting to miss the relaxed, if quite medicated, streets of Goodneighbor.  At least the drifters and scavvers seem to accept that the world is fucked up and they’re brave enough to pass a friendly, “How’s it goin,’ sister” to an outsider passing through. But here? People are fleeing into their homes at the sight of the newcomer. 

     A child comes running full speed past Nora, almost pushing her against the wall of the tight alley. He has a dirty face and torn clothes. Green gunk from the ground sprays off of his sandals as he passes. 

     “Sorry, lady!” He says sliding to a stop in front of Nora. He is about ten or eleven, but it is hard to tell. His cheeks are sunken and his head is shaved. Nora feels a surge of anxiety—she is thinking about Shaun. 

     “Oh, that’s ok. Where are you going in such a hurry?” 

     “Headed to work. My name’s Sheng and I sell water! Not that irradiated crap out there—Pure water!” 

     “Sounds like you’ve got a good thing going. You out here all alone?”

     “That’s right! Been on my own since I was eight. I’m an independent man. Got my own place, take night classes, the whole shebang!” He puts his fists on his hips and puffs out his chest.

     Nora feels sick. 

     “Hey, come down to my shop and let me get you a bottle of water, huh?” Sheng urges, sensing Nora’s anxiety. 

     “Okay, but later. I need to talk to the Detective first.”

     “Suit yourself.” The boy answers with a disappointed frown, then turns and takes off again, full speed, sending another spray of sludgy mud up Nora’s shins. 

     She makes her way further through Diamond City’s alleys until she sees the pink neon signs—hearts, cupid arrows, etc. _Well, I would have been disappointed if there wasn’t a heart above the door._ She silently celebrates finding the right place—a small victory in comparison to how horrendously lost Preston’s directions to Diamond City got her.

     Nora knocks on the metal door, but gets no response. She tentatively opens it and steps inside. It’s a small office with a single desk and computer terminal. The walls are lined with filling cabinets, papers and envelopes cover every surface. 

    There is a petite woman in a tattered dress thumbing through a cabinet behind the desk. She mumbles to herself in a worried tone, seemingly unaware of Nora’s quiet arrival. 

    Nora clears her throat. “Excuse me…” 

     The woman starts and turns from the files to face Nora, steadying herself on the top of the cabinet with both hands. “Oh good. Another drifter coming in out if the muck.” She says, covering her eyes with a delicate hand. “You’re too late. Valentine’s Detective Agency is closed.” 

 _Of course it is…_ Nora thinks. “It’s an emergency, and I won’t take much of your time… My baby—he was kidnapped. I was told Valentine could help me.” 

     The woman’s eyebrows draw in to form a concerned crease. She shakes her head. “Look, miss. I’m awfully sorry to hear that…but you don’t understand. The detective is missing—it has been days now.” 

 _Oh, of course he fucking is…_ “Any idea where he could be? I will help, if I can.” Nora steps forward, putting on her best reassuring posture. 

     “He was last headed to find a girl kidnapped by the Skinny Malone gang. They hold up in Park Street Station, near Boston Common.”

     “I know the place. I will find him, don’t worry.” Nora nods and backs toward the door. 

     “Wait, miss,” The woman grabs Nora’s arm to stop her, a worried look on her face, “If they bested Nick…you need to be careful.” 

     Nora nods and tries a confident smile, “I won’t go alone. I’ll bring him back. I swear.”

     The woman gives her a weak smile and releases her arm. “When you find him, tell him Ellie Perkins sent you. He’ll trust you.” 

     “Ok, Ellie. We’ll be back in no time.” 

 

 

     When Nora makes it back to the noodle stand, MacCready is nowhere to be seen. She checks the time on her Pip Boy: 10:30. She was only gone for thirty minutes. 

_Where the hell is he?_

     She decides to get something to eat. If he’s not back by the end of this cup of noodles, she’ll cut her losses and find Valentine on her own. 

     Piper didn’t seem to trust MacCready. Nora considers the rationality of traveling with a hired gun: on the one hand, his loyalty doesn’t have to be earned; it’s equal in measure to the amount of caps he receives, that much is clear. Nora is unsure whether that’s a pro or a con. Next, he knows what he’s doing; he got her to Diamond City fast and safely—pro. 

     He used to be a “Gunner”—Con. Judging by other people’s immediate perceptions, the look of Winlock and Barnes, and what MacCready said himself, you have to be capable of some murderous shit to run with that gang, but Nora already payed him and she doesn’t want to go it alone. 

     Last one: he doesn’t ask questions—pro. It’s hard enough dealing with the loss of Nate and the fear of what’s happening to Shaun. She doesn't need someone constantly reminding her of it all, or worse…she doesn’t want someone to confide in. Getting close to someone means the possibility of getting hurt again. She decides the best thing to do is keep it impersonal. She’ll pay him to kill for her and that’s that. 

     As if on cue, Mac comes from around the corner between to buildings.  Dogmeat runs up to him happily when he sees the merc heading toward the noodle stand. Nora observes Mac’s limp. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but present. His right leg supports weight a fraction of time shorter than the left. Nora shrugs off any developing concern. There’s no telling what a mercenary goes through in the Wasteland. She remembers the Deathclaw’s hand squeezing her ribs and shivers. 

     “Where were you?” She asks, as he stops next to the noodle counter. 

     “Visiting an old friend at the Dug Out.” 

     Nora smells beer. “Where you _drinking_?” 

     Mac crosses his arms and leans back against the counter. “Couldn’t refuse a free drink from a friend. I’m sober, trust me.” 

     “It’s half past ten in the morning.”  

     Mac raises an eyebrow, “So?”

     Nora shakes her head and hands her mostly-empty noodle cup to the robot behind the counter. The robot says, “Nan-ni shimasho-ka?” in response. Nora doesn’t try to answer. 

      She jumps off the stool and faces Mac. “You ready to fight?” 

     “Waitin’ on you, boss.” He says with a snarky grin. 

     “The detective is missing in Park Street Station. Apparently he got into trouble with some ‘Skinny Malone’ guy.” 

     “The triggermen. I know ‘em. Pretty tough gang, but the men aren’t trained. They use heavy submachine guns, a crap ton of bullets, and zero aim.”

     “So we can take them?” 

     He nods and straightens up from leaning on the noodle counter, his full hight considerably taller than Nora. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” 

 

     Nora stops at Piper’s on the way out and tells Dogmeat to wait there. She doesn’t want to risk him getting hurt in the close quarters of a subway station.

______________________________________________________________________________

 

      A couple miles from Diamond City, Nora and Mac are getting close to the entrance of Park Street Station. She followed him to the roof of a small apartment complex where he can get a vantage point and take out any guards at the subway’s entrance. 

      Mac walks to the edge of the roof and takes out a pair of binoculars. Nora squints through the sunlight; she can see the Boston Common and a small grey building that could be the subway entrance, but they’re too far away for Nora to be sure where Mac is looking. 

     “There’s a couple triggermen guarding the entrance.” He says, dropping the binoculars from his eyes. “I can drop ‘em from here,” there’s a hint of bragging in his voice. He takes his rifle off his shoulder and lays flat on his stomach, using the edge of the roof as a stabilizer. 

     Nora walks over and kneels next to him. She can’t see the guards from here, but that’s what she hired Mac for.

     The stock of his rifle is pressed to his cheek. His blue eyes squint through the scope. Sweat shines on his brow just below the shade of his cap. He breathes slow, his hands incredibly still. 

     He holds his breath and pulls the trigger.  

     Nora watches his shoulder roll back in effortless synchronization, absorbing the recoil. Muscle memory. The corner of his mouth pulls back in a grin. Killshot.

     He enjoys this.  

     Another clean shot and he flicks the safety on. All clear. 

     Nora feels a little uncomfortable by his hint of enjoyment.

     “What, you’re not impressed?” He muses. 

     Nora is naturally troubled by the amount of death she’s seen since thawing and the imminent battle in the subway is doing nothing to ease her stress. “Huh? Oh, yeah. You’re very talented.”

     He grins with pride and pats the butt of his rifle. “I’m completely self-taught, you know. I picked up a rifle for the first time when I was ten and never looked back.”

 _He was only_ ten _?_ Nora doesn’t think he notices her shocked expression. He’s loading another bullet into the chamber. Judging by how easily he pulls the trigger on people, Nora doesn’t think he learned how to shoot using bottles for target practice. _Jesus. My baby is lost out there where little boys learn to kill at ten years old._

     Nora stands and turns her back, spinning her rings. 

 

     Nora avoids noticing the fact that one of the guards that MacCready sniped is missing his head. The ground beneath his corpse is a chunky, red puddle that is still growing as blood seeps from the stump of his neck. She notices this anyway, and sways. 

     She takes a deep breath as they enter the subway, tightening the grip around her 10mm. The air grows cooler as they delve into the ruins. Nora senses Mac’s muscles tense as they come into close quarters. 

     They hear the triggermen before seeing them. Nora moves her feet quietly, avoiding rusty cans and empty glass bottles. Mac moves slowly ahead of her, then stops before entering the room with the voices. 

     “I tell ya, joining Skinny Malone’s crew was the best decision we every made. Look at this place!” A ghoul, by the sound of his voice. 

     MacCready moves up to the left side of the doorway, and Nora moves to the right. They peak into the room at the same time, pistols ready. There are two triggermen behind a ticket counter, talking. 

     “I still say Malone’s weak. We caught that detective snooping around, and what does he do? Locks him up. Like he ain’t got the balls to just kill him.” The second triggerman replies. 

     Nora sees Mac nod in her peripheral and they fire at the same time. Both triggermen drop with a limp thud. The combined sound from the pistol’s firing echo’s through the subway, sending a ringing through Nora’s ears. There goes the chance for any further sneaking. It’s gorilla warfare from this point on. 

     They grab ammo off the bodies and head down the stairs, deeper in into the subway. 

_A questionably alcoholic mercenary and a two-hundred year old widowed lawyer make a helluva team. Who’d of thought._

     Mac visibly tenses as they round the corner. He hears the anxious whispers before she does. The bottom of the stairs open up to a subway stop. Nora can see stacks of crates and broken dispensing machines scattered on either side of the subway tracks. The room is too quiet.  The triggermen must be trying for an ambush. 

     MacCready descends the stairs with his back sliding along the left wall. He motions for Nora to do the same and she does. He stops at the bottom of the stairs and takes a frag grenade off his ammo belt. He pulls the pin and pauses for a couple excruciatingly long seconds. Nora hears her heartbeat. 

     He throws the frag and moves around the corner of the doorway after the blast clears, diving behind a fallen Nuka-Cola machine. Nora winces as the burning screams of two triggermen reach her ears over the sound of falling rubble. 

     Mac fires across the tracks from behind his cover and Nora runs behind a pillar. She aims around the concrete column and fires at the Triggerman’s fedora-topped heads as they pop up over covers. This is similar to a firing range simulation Nate once took her to. Nora fires repeatedly, not allowing herself to think, just aim and pull the trigger. She kills two or three, but doesn’t want to count. 

     “Shit!” Nora barely moves behind the pillar in time as a wave of .45s from a submachine gun spray over her cover.  A shard of concrete blasts against her face and she feels blood run down her cheek from the new sting just below her eye. 

     “Get down! Are you trying to die?” Mac yells over the machine gun fire. 

     Nora ducks and dives behind the Nuka-Cola Machine with Mac. He fires systematically planned shots across the subway as Nora reloads the clip of her pistol.

     She replaces the full clip. Mac stands and removes his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The ringing in Nora’s ears subsides enough for her to realize the subway has gone quiet. 

     She stands with Mac and he passes her a satisfied grin.  

     She gives him a weak smile back and they continue walking through the subway. 

     The walls on either side of the tracks are crumbling and blocked by crashed train compartments and storage crates, so Nora and Mac drop down onto the tracks to move deeper into the subway. 

     A few yards ahead, the left wall of the subway is missing, and the large hole in the concrete leads to a dirt pit with a metal walkway over it. Nora squints through the dimly lit tunnel and sees the familiar yellow and grey metal seal of a vault. Instead of the number “111” on it’s center, this seal is inscribed “114.” 

 

     “Wouldn’t have guessed we’d find a vault down here.” Mac says as they stare up at the seal. 

     “Must be where they’re keeping Valentine. No wonder he hasn’t escaped.” Nora’s mind wonders back to the corridors of cryo-pods filled with frozen corpses in Vault 111. Her blood runs cold and Mac frowns. 

     “Do you happen to know how to open it?” He asks. 

      Nora nods and climbs the metal stairs to the pip boy dock. She pulls the corded plug from her pip boy and plugs it into the platform. The plastic case pops open and she presses the red button, just like in Vault 111. 

     Nora’s stomach turns at the though of seeing more corpse-filled cryo-pods. 

     The seal recedes into the wall with a metallic screech, then lifts, revealing the vault’s entrance and allowing the automated platform to extend through the opening. 

     Nora takes an involuntarily shaky breath and steps into the vault. 

     Mac tensed just being in close quarters, so Nora watches his stiff and reluctant steps as he follows her into a sealed underground chamber. 

     They both duck behind a stack of storage containers when they hear a triggerman call from inside, “Goddammit, I hate it when the open the door. Why’s that thing so loud?” 

     God knows what’s in this vault and Nora doesn’t want another close quarters fire fight, so she plans to sneak through this as much as possible. She hears the single triggerman coming toward the entrance, and she pulls a combat knife from her boot. Mac gives her a worried glance that says, “Are you sure?” Nora nods and motions for him to stay. 

     She positions her self to the side of the door where the triggerman will enter. 

     “Helloo? Is that you, Skinny? Darla?” The triggerman asks as he nears the door. 

     Nora jumps from around the doorway and shoves the knife into the man’s neck. He tries to call out, but his throat is full of metal and blood. She drops him softly as his body softens. 

     Mac stands up from behind the crates and lets out a soft whistle. He’s impressed. Nora feels dirty. 

     They are already deep underground, but the vault carries them further down with several sets of stairs. Mac lets Nora lead the way, trying his best to mask discomfort. Nora senses it anyway. 

    They stealthily drop two more triggermen in a long hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Mac quietly opens the heavy sealed door at the end of the hall. The room is like a large excavated cavern, with dirt walls supported by concrete and steal beams. Vault-Tech’s favorite metal walkway system leads to a door on the other side of the room, at the bottom left corner. Triggermen are spread across the walkway. Nora counts five of them. 

     A spotlight covers the start of the stairs. Sneaking through this will be impossible. 

     Mac slides quietly behind the spotlight and crouches next to the railing. He takes his rifle off his back. “I can take out two before we get shot at.” He whispers, aiming down the sights on the closest triggerman. “Get ready to run and fire your way to the door. I’ll cover you from here.” 

     The rifle shot creates a much louder echo through the vault than the pistols. The closest triggerman’s jaw explodes and he falls off the metal walkway. Nora winces at the ringing in her ears and begins running down the stairs, pistol drawn. She aims at the next triggerman, but Mac lands a bullet in his neck.  

     Two triggermen are charging her around the next corner, both wielding submachine guns. Nora fires four times. One miss, the next bullet lands in a man’s chest, the other two drill into the second man’s abdomen. She hears another rifle shot and a thud on the metal path behind her. She turns to see the body of a triggerman, baseball bat still firmly in his dead grasp. She waves a ‘thank you’ to Mac. 

     Then the room is quiet. 

     Nora waits by the door as Mac to makes his way down the metal stairs. 

 

     The next room looks like a dead end, but there’s a small rectangular hole in the floor. Looks like they’ll be heading further underground. 

     Mac’s face is unreadable as he lowers Nora through the trapdoor. 

     She gasps, frozen, as her feet hit the ground and she is faced with a ghoul in a dirty grey suit and fedora. His decayed, noseless face is just a foot from hers. The ghoul’s face twists from surprise to disgust and he raises a baseball bat above his head. 

     She hears Mac land hard behind her. He immediately shoves Nora out of the way, catches the ghoul’s forearm mid-swing, and fires a round through the his midsection. The triggerman drops the bat as a circle of dark blood grows through his dirty grey suit. He grips his stomach and staggers back. Mac sends a second round through his head, and the man falls against the wall in a bleeding pile. 

     That’ll be the second time Mac has saved her from a bashed skull. 

_Damn. Don’t bring a baseball bat to a MacCready fight._

     “Uh…Thanks.” Nora says, dusting herself off and regaining what’s left of her composure. 

     “Don’t mention it.” Mac says quickly. His eyes are dark. Nora sees a hatred in them that gives her chills. She doesn’t dare ask. 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

     Nora is rendered speechless when the door opens to reveal the half broken face of Detective Nick Valentine. The pale, artificial skin over his face is torn off under his chin and neck, revealing an intricate system of robotics. He wears a faded trench-coat like Mac, but it’s cleaner and in-tact. The worn fedora on his head shadows his face, but the yellow rings of light from his synthetic irises shine through the darkness. 

     “Well, the damsel-in-distress role seems to have reversed.” Nick says, stepping toward a stunned Nora. His voice is old-fashioned. Accented the way a New Englander would be from Nora’s time.  “But the question is, why does she come all this way, risking life and limb, for an old private eye?” 

     The robotic detective takes a cigarette out of his coat pocket with a skeletal metal hand that every inch of synthetic flesh has eroded off of. He lights the cigarette and raises it to his lips. Nora half expects the smoke to puff out from the whole in his neck. It doesn’t. 

     Nora forgets how to speak. 

     The detective stares blankly at Nora. 

     Mac clears his throat and steps into the room. “Her son was kidnapped. She needs your help. Ellie Perkins sent us to find you.” 

     Mac’s answer snaps Nora out of it. “He—his names Shaun. He’s just a baby…less than a year old.” 

     “Missing kid, huh? Well you’ve come to the right man, if not to the right place. I’ve been cooped up in here for weeks. Turns out the missing daughter I came here to find wasn’t kidnapped. She’s Skinny Malone’s new flame and she’s got a mean streak. Anyway, you’ve got troubles, and I’m glad to help, but now ain’t the time. Let’s blow this joint. Then we’ll talk.”

     Valentine strides out if the room, coat dusting the ground behind him. Mac follows, anxious to get back to the surface. Nora hesitates, then follows the two men further into the vault.  

_____________________________________________________________________________

     The next few rooms of the vault are connected by more stairs, except this time, they are climbing instead if descending. Nora notices MacCready relax increasingly as they climb back toward the surface. 

     Nick, on the other hand, is less enthused. “Who built this damn vault, a fitness instructor?” He grunts as they climb. 

     Nora smiles at the comment, coming to terms with the fact that the only man who can help her find her son just turned out to be a synth, possibly created by this ‘Institute’ that Piper warned her about. The very people that may have killed Nate and taken Shaun. 

     They reach a locked door, but Nick strides up to the control panel with confidence and starts fiddling with the wiring. “Skinny’s name is, uh, ironic.” Nick says while unlocking the door. “I got the lock, but I hear big fat footsteps on the other side. Once we head through this door, get ready for anything.” 

     Nora exchanges a worried glance with Mac. 

     Nick opens the door and they are faced with a large man holding a heavy sub-machine gun, a smoking cigar held in his mouth with a fat lip. Skinny is surrounded by four equally armed triggermen and a woman with a baseball bat in a sequin dress at his side. 

     “Nicky? What’re you doin’? You come into my house. Shoot up my guys. You have any idea how much this is gunna set me back?” 

      Nick responds with a friendly tone, but he doesn’t lower his gun, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren't for your Darla, the two-timing dame, Skinny. You ought to tell her to write home more often.”

      Darla, the woman in the sequin dress, which is about four inches too short, twirls her bat as she walks up to Nick. “Awwww, poor little Valentine. Ashamed you got beat up by a girl? I’ll just run back home to daddy, shall I?” She runs a seductive finger down the barrel of Nick’s pistol. His face remain expressionless. 

     Mac strides forward out of nowhere and stops in the middle of the room. 

     “Mac, wha—“ Nora’s question is cut off as Mac fires a bullet, point blank, from his pistol, the Skinny’s fat head explodes from the back. Darla screams. 

     Mac is standing in the middle of the semi-circle of petrified triggermen. He fires another point-blank round into a pinstripe-suited ghoul as the fire fight commences. 

     The room lights up with bullets. 

     Nora yelps as Mac ducks behind a concrete pillar, just in time, as a triggerman has let loose on his submachine gun. What was that hesitation? 

     Nick blocks the bat swinging toward his head from Darla with the skeletal hand.  Nora shoots the woman through the chest, but Nick takes a triggerman’s stray bullet through the forearm holding the bat before the Darla falls.  

     Nick’s skeletal arm contorts involuntarily, then two fingers freeze. The damage to his forearm has rendered the fingers immobile.

     “Ah, shit!” Nick picks up his pistol in his left, good hand and starts firing at the remaining triggermen. 

 

     Once the triggermen are down and all the gun smoke clears, Nora nervously runs her eyes over her body, checking for bullet wounds. She is physically numbed by adrenalin. Other than dirt and scrapes, she is in one piece. 

     She notices Nick holster his pistol, then examine his damaged hand. He pulls back the sleeve of his coat to reveal a smoking hole through his synthetic arm. 

     “Are—are you ok?” Nora asks, concerned. 

     “I’ve had worse. I can mend it.” He says, adjusting some loose wires. 

     Nora turns her attention from the detective to march over to Mac, who is kneeling by a triggerman. He is either fearless or trying to kill himself. Either way, that was way too reckless.

     “What the _fuck_ was that, MacCready?!” Nora yells at him. 

     Mac succeeded in killing the triggermen, sure, but that was arguably murder. Nick got a bullet wound out of the chaos. What if that had gone through Nora? 

     Mac takes a pouch of caps off the triggerman’s body and stands. “It was only going to go down the one way. I acted on the opportunity to win.” 

     “Unbelievable.” Nora breathes. 

     “He’s right,”  Nick insists. “It wasn’t MacCready’s fault. It was only going to go down the one way.” He glances at Darla on the ground, bat resting in her limp grasp. “It’s going to be an awkward conversation with Darla’s parents when I tell them their daughter bit the big one…well, at least the case it closed.” 

     “Let’s just get out of here.” Nora says.

     “There’s a service ladder that should take us right to the surface.” Nick leads the way. 

     Nora takes a deep breath when they find the exit ladder. She allows herself to feel relief. She's not dead yet, and one step closer to finding Shaun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter is going to be shorter, but Mac and Nora are going to start understanding each other a bit. I'm still having fun, so I'll keep the updates coming!


	14. Hi Honey!

MacCready - Fort Hagen - October 9, 2287

     In the two days after finding Nick Valentine, Nora has learned a single name of the man who killed her husband, kidnapped her son, and who’s mechanically layered voice haunts her dreams every night: Kellogg.

     MacCready remains unaware of the details that Nora’s husband was murdered, her infant son taken before her eyes, and that she is two-hundred and thirty four years old, but he does know that his employer is on a bloodthirsty mission to find this ‘Kellogg’ and save her baby boy. He can sympathize with her cause…

     The young mercenary has left Nora to herself while in the relative safety of Diamond City. He spends his free time traveling to and from Goodneighbor, checking with Daisy for letters from the Capital Wasteland and drinking his meals in the form of Bobrov’s Best Moonshine. Other than that, he waits on Nora to tell him what to shoot, and ignores her annoyance when he shoots on his own terms. She’s so damn… _innocent._

     Nora has been out of the vault for only five days, but to Mac, it’s a miracle she’s stayed alive this long, or that she even made it to Goodneighbor to hire him. So far, he has saved her life every time they’ve stepped out into the Wasteland.

     It’s not that she’s weak. Not at all. It’s just that she’s going up against the biggest baddies in the Commonwealth. Mac has already helped her take out Skinny Malone and the triggermen, and today, they are deep within the ruins of Fort Hagen, hunting down the Institute’s top hitman and a small army of synths. 

     Mac follows Nora into the next room. They are both bloody and exhausted. The place is packed full of Gen-1 and 2 synths. The harsh robotic voice of a Gen-2 meets them around the next corner, “You must be terminated.” The synths states, raising a laser pistol. 

     “Not today.” Nora says calmly, firing two well aimed shots through the robot’s blank face. Mac crinkles his nose at smell of burning plastic and pats Nora on the shoulder. Definitely not weak. _Hell, she’s tougher than Lucy._ He feels a pang of guilt for comparing the two women. He doesn’t even know the vault dweller. Though, he doesn’t feel like he really knew Lucy anymore…at the end.  

      Nora locks eyes with him, but says nothing. Mac has noticed a heavy darkness into those deep brown eyes since she learned Kellogg’s name. She hasn’t shown any hesitation in putting bullets through synths, not like her shaky hands back in Park Street Station. Mac wonders if it’s just easier for her to kill robots, or if the Wasteland is starting to snap at her heels, threatening that innocent nature that he senses in her—a quality he’s seen in so few people during his life.

      Mac points to the door that leads deeper into the Fort. Nora goes quietly through. 

      A deep, gruff voice plays through a hidden source in the hall that follows, “Well, if it isn’t my old friend, the frozen TV dinner. Last time we met, you were cozying up to the peas and apple cobbler.”

 _What the hell does that mean?_ Mac thinks. 

      Nora stops abruptly in the hall in front of him. Her posture tense, she stands frozen. 

      Mac assumes the voice is Kellogg's and that she's heard it before. 

      “Let’s go get him.” He says quietly, stepping around Nora to lead the way. 

She hesitates. Mac hears her take a deep breath behind him, the inhale is slightly shaky. 

 _What did this guy do to you?_ He wants to asks, but doesn’t. 

 

      Nora follows him through crumbling concrete halls and stairwells. Around the bottom turn of a set of stairs, Mac hears a metallic grinding noise followed by an altering beep. _Machine gun turret._ He puts and arm out to stop Nora and pulls a frag off his belt. He signals for Nora to cover her ears, then he pulls the pen and counts: _one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand._

     He rolls the grenade around the corner and covers his own ears. 

     The blast sends a plume of concrete powder through the room. Mac and Nora stand with their eyes closed, ears covered, and breathes held until the smoke clears. 

     When the dust is calm, they inhale at the same time and round the corner to see the jagged stumps of two subdued machine gun turrets. 

    The hidden speaker clicks on again. Nora Jumps. 

     Kellogg's voice is calm, but icy—layered with something strange. Mac assumes the strangeness is just a faulty intercom, “Sorry your house has been a wreck for two hundred years. But I don’t need a roommate. Leave.” Mac wonders of Kellogg is making any sense to her, because he has no idea what this guy is talking about. Judging by the fire in Nora’s eyes, Kellogg’s jabs are hitting a nerve. “Hmph. Never expected you to come knocking on my door. Gave you 50/50 odds of making it to Diamond City. After That? Figured the Commonwealth would chew you up like jerky.” 

     Mac’s mind flashes back to the day Lucy died. He lay a crumpled, bleeding mess on the road at the feet of three Gunners. ‘ _Looks like the Wasteland chewed him up and spit him up,’_ Barnes’s deep dump voice echoes in his head. Mac suddenly feels a spark of hatred toward this Kellogg. 

     He hears synth voices in the next hall before Nora does. “Synths coming.” He says, snapping her out of another anxious pause. 

     They bust into the hall, guns blazing, both ready to get this over with. 

     The Gen-1s go down with little resistance. 

     The halls of the fort are getting darker and colder, a sort of physical omen that they are getting close. 

     The hidden audio system clicks on again, “Look. You’re pissed off. I get it, I do. But whatever you hope to accomplish in here? It’s not going to go your way.” Nora doesn’t freeze up to listen this time. She must be sensing they are nearing the end as well. 

     Mac’s eyes are wide, grasping for light in the cavernous ruins as they reach a short set of curved stairs that open up to a thin door. The room on the other side is even darker, almost pitch black. 

     Kellogg’s voice clicks on again—louder. They are right under a speaker. “It’s not too late. Stop. Turn around and leave. You have that option. Not a lot of people can say that.” _Mechanical_. MacCready decides it’s not the speaker playing tricks; Kellogg’s voice is strangely mechanical. But this time, there’s a human resonance. _Remorse?_

     Nora turns to Mac, her eyes wide in the darkness. “You can go.” She says, trying to mask the fear in her voice. She fails.

     Mac is stunned. For a moment, doesn’t know what to say. He watches her watery eyes move side to side, studying his own. Her hair is falling out of it’s tie and sticking to the bloody scrape on her cheek. Her pale skin reflects what little light the room offers, like moonlight. 

    "You payed for a month. It's been two days." He says.

    "I don't know what Kellogg is capable of." There's clear fear in her voice.

    Mac feels a sympathetic pit in his stomach. _She’s different. She doesn’t deserve this._

    There’s nothing to consider. For once in his life, he might actually be able to do something right…or kill himself trying. 

    “No. I’m helping you take out this assho—I mean, this…bad guy.” 

   Nora hesitates. She almost looks like she wants to argue. She holds her hands out in front of her; the delicate fingers of her right hand gently graze the silver bands on her left ring finger. She straightens up and locks eyes with Mac, a desperate spark of bravery shining behind them. 

    “Thank you.” She says to him. 

    Mac nods and gives her a reassuring half-smile. He hopes she can’t sense the self-loathing shadow that follows him into every bloody fight. _Hold it together, Robert. You can do this one decent thing._

 

     The pair walks slowly and quietly through the dark rooms of the fort until they pry open a wooden door, hung loosely on eroding, rusty hinges. The room is perfectly round with a high roof. A dirty skylight in its center does nothing to lighten the shadowed room but, instead, reveals that a dark storm is brewing over the Commonwealth.  

     Mac and Nora climb over scattered pieces of broken furniture that litters the dusty floor.

     The speaker clicks on once more with Kellogg’s voice, “Okay, you made it. I’m just up ahead. My synths are standing down…Let’s talk.”

     The door at the other end of the room swings open automatically. 

     Mac feels Nora’s hand close around his forearm. She faces him. 

     “Last chance. I don’t have any stempacks. You could die if you follow me. I can’t ask you  to do that.” If she held his arm any tighter, he would feel her erratic heartbeat through her fingertips. 

     This is a first. Everyone Mac has met has either tried to rip him off or plant a knife in his back, and her's this woman he barely knows, saying that she cares about what happens to him.

 _Crap._ He hates himself enough already, if he walks away now and leaves her to die…there’s no going back from that. 

     He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m not leaving.” 

     She stares at him for a moment. Her expression reveals fear, pain, loss, and an insatiable thirst for revenge. It’s stunning. For the first time since becoming a mercenary, Mac wants to know his employer’s story. He wants to know where she’s from, what happened to her husband, why her son was taken…and he _wants_ to help her make it right. Caps or not, he feels like he needs to do this. 

     Nora brakes their stare and blinks rapidly, trying to fight back waterworks.

     She walks stiffly through the opened door, knuckles white as she grips her pistol. 

     Mac follows her into the even darker hall.

     The room is large and almost pitch black. Two yellow ceiling lamps flicker on at the far end when they enter. It’s not enough light to see the entire room, but Mac can make out the silhouettes of an armed, muscled, tactically-suited man surrounded by four Gen-2 synths, standing between rows of pre-war terminal desks. 

     Mac hears Kellogg’s voice for the first time in person. It’s deep and steady. That inhuman element is still present, a strange mechanical tone, as if he himself is part synth. “There she is. The most resilient woman in the Commonwealth.” 

     Nora has her pistol drawn, aiming at Kellogg’s head. Mac trusts her angle, so he aims at a synth to Kellogg’s left. 

     Kellogg starts walking toward Nora and continues, “So, here we are. Funny, huh?”

     Mac can’t see his face. It’s too dark just a black figure floating through shadows. 

     Nora replies, her voice venomous, “You murdering, kidnapping psychopath. Give me my son. Give me Shaun! Now!” Her finger rests on the trigger. 

     “Right to it then, huh? Okay fine. Your son, Shaun? Great kid. A little older than you may have expected…” _Older than expected?_ Mac tries to ignore that fact that this is still making no sense. “But if you’re looking for a happy reunion? Ain’t gunna happen. Your boy’s not here.” 

     Kellogg is close enough now that Mac can see his face. He is bald, tan skin, jaw scruffy with dark hair. Theres a deep scar from the top of his forehead to his chin. He wears leather and steal armor over his chest and left shoulder. He’s holding a revolver loosely to the side. The only kind of man you’d expect is capable of stealing a baby from a vault. Mac feels an instant hatred toward this man.

    Nora has not backed down. She grips her pistol in both hands, aiming straight between Kellogg’s black eyes. “Then you’re going to take me to him. Right now.” 

 _She is tougher than Lucy._ The thought creeps up on Mac.

    Kellogg laughs. He actually freaking laughs. “Take you to him? Like I could, even if I wanted to. Don’t you get it? Your son, he’s in a place nobody can reach.”

    Nora shifts, bringing the pistol closer to his head. 

    Kellogg sighs. Mac senses that hint of remorse again. “He’s safe at home. In the Institute.”

    Mac’s stomach turns. He thinks about his own son alone in the Capital Wasteland. 

    Nora speaks, “The Institute? Well, I’ll find him, no matter where he is. Nothing will stop me.” 

    “God, you’re persistent. I give you credit. It’s the way a parent should act. The way I’d be acting if I were in your place, I’d like to think. Even if it is useless.” 

    Damn, this is hitting close to home. Mac distracts himself by switching his aim from one synth to another. He doesn’t want to think about his failures at Med-Tek. He doesn’t want to think about Duncan. 

    Kellogg steps back from Nora, she keeps the gun on him. He continues, “I think we’ve been talking long enough. We both know how this has to end. So…Ready?” His voice has reduced to a gruff whisper. It sounds more human. Pained. 

    “Oh, I’m ready. The question is—are _you_?” 

    Kellogg moves as Nora fires. He knocks her pistol out of the way and the bullet narrowly misses his head. The light from the shot reveals the toothy grin on his damaged face. 

    Mac fires at the same time, placing two shots into a synth’s face. Its falls, melted plastic bubbling around the entry points. 

    The remaining three synths light up the room with bursts from their laser pistols. As brilliant flashes of red streak through the room like a strobe light, Mac sees Kellogg knock Nora to the ground with the butt of his revolver meeting the top of her head. Mac tries to plant a bullet in Kellogg’s skull, but a burning pain melts into his shoulder, sending the bullet off course. It grazes Kellogg’s neck, causing him to drop the revolver—the gun is lost amongst the darkness on the floor. 

    Mac ducks behind a desk, sending shots toward the synths, luring them from Nora. He grinds his teeth, fighting to ignore the pain from the oozing laser burn in his shoulder. 

    It’s so dark. 

    Mac waits for synths to fire, the red lights revealing his targets. He fires another two killshots into a close synthetic mask, sending it two the ground. In his peripheral, he catches Kellogg kicking Nora back to the ground, her pistol slides away into the darkness. Mac is fully aware she can’t win hand-to-hand with Kellogg.   

     Mac works on the remaining two synths, keeping a desperate eye on Nora through flashes of light. She is standing now, holding Kelloggs hands back with all her strength. The silver of a serrated blade reflects in his hand. 

     Mac kills another synth. 

     Kellogg swipes the knife across Nora’s side. Mac hears her gasp between gunfire and laser blasts. He holds his breath and fires a round through the darkness, landing a bullet in the last synth’s eye-socket. The pain in his shoulder is throbbing.

     The room is darker now that the synths are terminated. 

     “Nora?!” Mac yells toward the tangled silhouettes. Nora is on the ground, one hand over the bleeding wound her side, the other sliding over the dark, cluttered floor. 

      Kellogg strides toward her, knife in hand. _Why isn’t he finishing this?_

      Mac fires at Kellogg’s shape. The bullet lodges in his chest and he stumbles back…but he quickly and steadily regains his pace toward Nora. That bullet should have killed him.

 _What the fu—hell_ is _this guy?_

      A shot fired from Kellogg’s revolver lights up the room once more. The back of Kellogg’s head explodes in red chunks and… _sparks?_ As if metal hit metal. Kellogg collapses to the ground. 

     Mac helps Nora back to her feet. Her face is stark white and ghostly. They both look down at whats left of Kellogg’s head. MacCready has planted enough killshots to know that there should be more blood running from the gaping hole in the back of Kellogg’s skull. This man wasn’t all human. Not anymore. Nora bends down and takes something from his head. It’s some kind of synthetic brain apparatus. She puts it in her pocket and suddenly bursts into tears. 

     Mac doesn’t hesitate but takes her in his arms.He grunts as her weight tugs at his wounded shoulder. She cries into his coat. 

     “Nora…? It’s ok. It’s over.” 

     He feels blood growing through her vault-suit from the knife wound on her side. Her crying abruptly ceases and she goes slack in his arms. Mac’s breath catches as he supports her, a shooting pain jabs his shoulder. “Jesus, Nora…Nora…?” 

      She’s unconscious. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

 

     The sky is angry. 

    Dark grey clouds roll with chilly wind and electricity dances through them with a green hue. A rad-storm is brewing fast. 

   Mac has managed to carry Nora two miles from Fort Hagen, but the growing storm and the increasing pain in his throbbing shoulder warm him that he needs to stop soon. There’s a small, mostly ruined farm shanty just off the road ahead. Dogmeat runs half-way to the little shack and barks, signaling for Mac to follow. 

   The shack is empty, other than an old cooking station and a tattered twin mattress. No mongrels, radroaches, or ghouls squatting in the dusty corners. Maybe their luck is starting to turn. 

   Mac sets Nora gently down on the tattered mattress.  Dogmeat licks at the blood on her forehead from Kellogg’s blow with the butt of his pistol, and the dog whines. 

    “Yeah…She’s had is rough, eh bud?” Mac pats Dogmeat on the head and examines the bleeding wound in Nora’s side. It’s not deep enough to be life threatening, but the size if the blood stain confirms that it needs stitches. 

   Mac’s hand shake slightly as he unzips her vault-suit. He tells himself it’s from the cold. She wears a tank top underneath. He tries not to look at her body. 

   He takes a needle and thread from his pocket and gently stitches up the wound. Her damp blood on his hand makes them colder. Nora doesn’t stir. 

   Mac zips up her suit and stands. 

    She looks strange as she sleeps—calm. She doesn’t belong out here. Mac has been reluctantly fascinated by her pale skin since they met, especially the way it picks up light in the darkness. It’s not something seen often amongst the people of the wasteland.  He notices the blueish tint on her lips and takes his coat off to lay over her. 

    Usually, the dog disappears at night, preferring to be on his own, but he seems to know that Nora is hurt. As if understanding, Dogmeat nestles up against her and goes to sleep. 

Mac likes the dog. 

     He sighs and leans back against the wall. His shoulder protests against the pressure. He lets himself slide down to a sitting position and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of radioactive rain and thunder on the other side of the shanty’s thin wooden walls. 

 

     The storm lasts for hours.

     Mac sits up against the wall, silently begging his throbbing to ease up enough for a few minutes of sleep, but with no such meditative power, he decides this will be yet another sleepless night. He reaches for the pip boy resting on the floor by the mattress. Nora is still knocked out; whether it’s by her wounds or the sheer exhaustion of stress, Mac doesn’t know. 

    He investigates her pip boy and finds the “ON” button. His only intention is to check the time of day, but he finds his fingers running over the spine of an old holotape inserts inside the pip boy’s slot. The yellowed label reads “Hi Honey” in black pen. It’s faded. Mac’s finger rests tentatively on the “play” button. 

     He glances at Nora on the mattress; her chest rises and falls slowly in deep sleep. The feeling from earlier resurfaces—that foreign and guilty desire to _want_ to know this woman’s past. He presses the button before he can convince himself not to. 

    The pip boy clicks on and the tape begins spinning inside.

    The audio is old and scratchy. It’s a man’s voice and the sounds of a giggling infant, “Oops, haha. Keep those little fingers away... Ah, there we go. Say ‘hello’ to mamma! Just say it––right there––right there, go ahead. Haha, yay!” 

     Nora jerks awake and cringes at the pain in her side. Mac feels the blood rush to his cheeks and he tries to switch it off, but Nora catches his wrist and shakes her head. She is still groggy, half asleep, and in pain. 

     The tape continues to play. Nora’s face falls, her eyes half closed. They sit in silence and listen.

 

“Hi honey, listen... 

I don't think Shaun and I need to tell you how great of a mother you are. But, we're going to anyway. You are so kind, and loving, and funny––that’s right––and patient. So patient––the patience of a saint, as your mother used to say. 

Look, with Shaun and us all being home together, it's been an amazing year. But even so, I know our best days are yet to come. There will be changes, sure, things we'll need to adjust to. I'll rejoin the civilian workforce, you'll shake the dust off your law degree. 

But everything we do no, matter how hard, we do it for our family. 

Now say goodbye Shaun. Bye bye, say ‘bye bye, mamma!’ 

Haha, bye honey, we love you!”

 

Then it is over. 

 

      “Uh, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I didn’t know what it was.” Mac stammers, switching the pip boy off. 

      “Don’t be sorry.” Nora whispers sadly. “I’m glad you did. I haven’t had the courage to play it myself yet.”

     She lays back down and absently spins the rings on her finger, then takes the plain silver one off. She lays quietly, examining the small metal band close to her face. 

     “This is…This is pre-war. How are you pre-war?” Mac’s question comes out on its own, but hell, he has willingly risked his life for her crazy story, he at least has a right to know how it goes. 

     She sighs, it quivers. “I was born in Boston Massachusetts in the year 2053.” Her words are soft and slow. She’s still not fully awake. Mac wonders if she will remember this tomorrow. “When I was twenty-four, in October of 2077, a nuclear war ended my world. I took refuge in Vault 111 with my husband, Nate, and my infant son, Shaun.” She is stammering through tears now. Mac wonders if he should tell her to stop. 

     She wipes her eyes and continues, “Vault-Tech workers led us underground, gave us these blue suits, then told us to climb into ‘decontamination pods.’ Except they lied. The pods were cryogenic freezers.  I was woken up twice. The first time, to watch Kellogg shoot my husband in the head and hand my baby over to a woman in a lab coat. The second time, to escape the vault and find myself in world that I don’t belong in. Where my family is dead and missing and my home is destroyed. To me, the war happened a week ago. To everyone else…it was two hundred and ten years ago.” 

 _Damn._ Mac has no words. “We…We don’t have to talk about it anymore.” 

     Nora slowly drifts back into unconscious sleep. 

     Mac watches her until the rain stops. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out a little longer than expected. I hope you liked it!


	15. Sympathy for the Devil

Nora - Commonwealth - October 9, 2287

 

       Nora wakes up on a dirty mattress. Her eyes fly open, there’s cold sweat on her forehead, she has a headache and a stabbing pain in her side when she tries to sit up. There’s a single thought in the way of her reacting to the pain: _My son is in the Institute._

       Dogmeat jerks awake next to her, then licks her face. His thick tail thumps happily against the thin wooden wall of a small, ruined farm shanty. Nora wipes his slobber off her cheek with cold fingers. 

       She lays for a moment, staring blankly at the old, crumbling walls around her, now fully aware of the stitches in her side and throbbing headache. She’s overwhelmed. 

 _Shaun is in the Institute—The one place that even the toughest people of the Commonwealth are afraid of…What am I going to do?_ She remembers Kellogg’s words in Fort Hagen, “… _Your son? He’s a little older than you may have expected…”_ Nora’s heart sinks at the possibility that Shaun was taken earlier than she thought…if he grew up in this world alone…

       Nora feels a surge of dizziness and pictures Kellogg’s face exploding at the other end of his revolver barrel—the trigger pulled by her cold, shaking finger. 

       She rubs the picture out of her eyes and sits up, then slides Mac’s tan coat off of her and cringes at the dried, bloody stain on her side. The fabric of her vault-suit is ripped and a deep, stitched gash runs from the bottom of her rib cage to her hip bone. 

       She doesn’t remember walking here or being stitched up, but she slowly begins to vaguely recall waking up to the sound of Nate’s voice and an embarrassed MacCready holding her pip boy. 

       She’s not mad at him for playing the holotape. Relieved, actually. She has tried and failed to play it every night since waking up in the vault. Besides, Mac deserves to know who’s paying him to risk his life against the biggest baddies of the Commonwealth, and not only did he _willingly_ risk his life to help her kill Kellogg, but he also saved her in the process.  

       Nora’s mind flashes back to a moment in Fort Hagen. 

       Kellogg was taunting them through hidden speakers and Nora was so afraid. She told Mac that he could leave. She wanted him to leave—she doesn’t know him, doesn't care about him, but it’s all the more reason he shouldn’t have to die for her. He’s a stranger. 

       Then he refused to go… 

       And Nora saw something in his eyes. Something she used to see in Nate’s—The look of a man who knows what he wants to fight for, and it wasn’t just about caps…and he made her less afraid. 

       She glances around the small shack. The wooden walls are weathered and thin. There’s no furniture, other than the small tattered mattress she lays on. Theres an old cooking pot and some empty pork ’n beans cans. Mac is nowhere to be seen.

       She wonders how far from the Fort they are…and if he carried her all this way. She examines the messy stitches in her side suddenly feels blood in her cheeks, with guilt, at the thought of Mac seeing so much of her to stitch it up. 

       Nora realizes that she doesn’t know if he’s hurt. 

       She gets up slowly, keeping her back straight to avoid pulling at the stitches. The movement sends sharp pulses through her abdomen anyway. She pulls Mac’s coat up around her shoulders and creaks open the resistant door. 

       It’s a cold and cloudy morning; the ground is wet and muddy with greenish puddles scattered over the ground. They are close to a crumbling old highway, surrounded by naked, spindly trees. Dogmeat runs through the door and marks a tree stump. Nora shuffles out of the shack and still doesn’t see Mac.   

       Nora jumps when she hears a voice behind her. 

       “Up and at ‘em?”

       She turns to see Mac sitting on the roof of the small shack,rifle in his lap. She’s surprised he hasn’t fallen through the corroded tin shillings. 

       “Thought you weren’t gunna wake up.” He says, sliding off the roof, landing effortlessly. He notices the confused look on Nora’s face when he walks up to her and explains, “I prefer heights. More to see.” He gestures to the bald woods surrounding them. 

       “Naturally…I’m just surprised you didn’t fall through the roof. It doesn’t look very stable.” 

       He turns and examines the shack, his head tilted.  He looks back at Nora, shrugs, and gives her a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his tired blue eyes. 

      “I survived.” He says. 

      Nora notices the hole in his shirt shoulder. The fabric is singed around the edges and the skin underneath is burned and blistered. She feels a pang if guilt that he got hurt for her sake. 

     His face is pale and sunken. Theres a thin cut on his cheek. His hair is damp and falling over his face, and his muscles are tense, braced against the wet morning chill. 

     Nora drops his jacket off her shoulders and holds it out to him. 

     “You’re cold.” She says. 

      He frowns and shakes his head. “So are you. And you’re hurt. I’m fine.” 

    Sensing that it’s hopeless to argue, Nora sighs and pulls his coat back up over her shoulders. 

    Mac runs a hand through his messy hair, combing it back with his fingers, then smashes it down with his cap. He pulls the strap of his rifle over the good shoulder and turns to walk into the shack. 

    He disappears into the little wooden structure for a moment and comes back smoking a cigarette. 

     “How far are we from the Fort?” Nora asks. 

     “About four miles.” He answers, leaning up against the shack. 

     “Did you carry me here?” Nora blurts the question out. She cringes at the obvious embarrassment in her voice. She doesn’t know why it’s there. The way his damp shirt is clinging to his muscles might have something to do with it…

      He nods, exhaling smoke. “Yeah. But don’t flatter yourself, lady. You’re paying me to keep you alive. That’s all it was.” 

     “No—I know. Of course, I was just…Why didn’t you just finish me off and search me for caps?” Nora surprises herself; she almost sounded disappointed that he didn’t. 

     Mac’s eyebrows draw together, and he scoffs as if offended, “Hey, I’m no Silver Shroud, but I’ve got a…a code.” 

     “A code? Is that why you always stop yourself from cursing?”

     His eyes widen and he hides them under the shade of his cap. “Something like that…” He mumbles with a soft voice.

     “Well…thank you.” 

     Mac is silent for a moment, then he rests his head back against the wall. “Do you remember last night?” He asks. 

     “Some. It’s fuzzy.” Nora’s headache throbs as she struggles to play the events back in her head. “I’m pretty sure there was a storm, then you played my holotape. I think I tried to explain everything…the best I could before passing out again.”

     “That about sums it up.” He says. “I’m sorry.” 

     Nora stares at the ground. “I told you, it’s fine. I’m glad you played it.” 

     “I know. I mean…I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.” 

     Nora studies his bloodshot blue eyes. She sees more in them than he wants to let on. Something tells her that he understands. She sees darkness, rage, remorse, loss, and purpose. His eyes are full of blue fire and Nora wants to know their story. She wants to know how he understands. 

     But she’s afraid of the desire to want to know him. 

     She’s afraid of what happened to Nate.

     And how much it hurts. 

    “Anyway,” Mac breaks the silence, seeming embarrassed that his attempt at condolences met no response, “The radstorm got bad about halfway back, so I camped us here. We still have five or six miles until we reach Goodneighbor,” He glances at her bloodied side, “ Can you walk?” 

     It’s just an honest question. It’s not like he’s offering to carry her all the way back to Goodneighbor. She lets her hair fall over her face to hide her blush. “Yeah, I can walk.” 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

     It’s mid-morning and Goodneighbor is quiet. A knew array of foul smells have been released by the rain from last night’s radstorm and the already filthy streets are now mucky with shallow puddles. 

     “Valentine said to meet him in the Memory Den.” Nora says to Mac as they step into the town square. 

     Mac stops walking and Nora turns to him, confused. His hat is in his hand and he runs fingers through his hair. If she knew him better, Nora might think he looked nervous. 

     “Hey, can I sit out on this one? I need to take the day. There’s something I gotta do.” 

     “Oh, uh sure. Nick and I will just be checking out Kellogg’s head…thingy. So I don’t think anything life threatening is involved, though I’m not sure what to expect anymore…What is it you need to do?” 

     His eyes are dark. “Nothing for you to worry about.” 

     Nora feels a little hurt by his cold tone. But it’s not like she’s risking her life for him. She reminds herself it’s easier if she doesn’t know him. 

     But she can’t help it. “Hey, if you need something, you can tell me. You’ve saved my life enough to earn a favor.” 

     He hesitates and checks her eyes. “Let’s just agree to keep our she—ugh,  _crap_ to ourselves from now on. You don’t need to worry about me, and I don’t need to know anymore about you.” 

    Nora shrugs, regretting that she offered, and allowing her better judgement to agree with him. “Okay. See you tomorrow?” 

    “Yeah, morning.” 

    “Ok. Be careful, Mac.” 

   He looks surprised by her persistent concern, but says nothing. He nods, then turns and strides into Daisy’s Discounts. Nora hears the old ghoul behind the counter greet him. 

She forces her focus back on meeting Nick at the Memory Den. 

 

    The Memory Den reminds Nora of an old theater. The floor is covered by dirty red and black checkered tiles and huge, silky red curtains drape the walls and ceiling, but instead of having opened to a grand stage, the curtains frame a damp, musty room, lined with rusting, glass-domed sleeping pods. 

    Nora looks into one of the pods as she passes. A man in a faded grey suit is cocooned inside the glass dome with wires attached to his forehead. His eyes are half-closed and he has a goofy, almost drugged-up, wide smile spread across his face. Nora resists the urge to tap on the glass just to see if his unsettling grin would go away. 

     She notices Nick Valentine chatting with a sultry woman lying in a red velvet chaise. 

    “Well, well, Mr. Valentine. I though you had forgotten about little ole’ me.” Her voice is smooth and seductive. 

     Nick grins, the most emotional expression Nora has seen from the synth since they met, “I may have walked out of the Den, Irma, but I’d never walk out on you.” _Huh, who knew the Detective could be so charming?  
“_ Hmmm, Amari’s downstairs ya big flirt.” Irma winks at Nick and he tips his hat. Nora feels awkward, like she’s watching her parents get teasey.

     Nora raises an eyebrow to Nick as they walk down the stairs to Amari’s lab.

     “You gunna say somethin’?” 

     “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She replies, amused. 

     Nora is grateful Nick is here. Sure MacCready makes her feel safe, but ever since learning that Nick has pre-war memories, he makes her feel ease—at home. 

     Nick stops in front of her and studies her face for a moment, expression concerned. 

     “You holding up ok, kid? You, uh, kinda look like you’ve been through hell.” 

     Nora often falls into her pre-war habits when talking to Nick. She is about to say, “I’m fine, and yourself?” but the pain in her side and a mild headache remind her that this isn’t pre-war Massachusetts—It’s a wasteland called the Commonwealth where her husband is dead, her son is taken, and she’s in the basement of an eroding building talking to the skeletal remains of a synthetic human with the personality of a 210 year old detective. 

     “I’m not okay…” She decides to say. “I’m afraid, Nick. If Kellogg’s right, then Shaun is in the Institute…and I almost died facing him. How can I take on the Institute?” 

     “But you didn’t die. You put that bastard in the ground and I haven’t met a lot of people who could’ve done that. Hell, you don’t need to be afraid of anything. And you’re not alone. Anytime you need my help out there, just come knocking.”

     “Thanks, Nick.” 

     The detective gives her a reassuring smile. His yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. They don’t bother Nora as much anymore. 

     “Oh, how’s your hand? I’m sorry again for…MacCready.” She asks, remembering the hit Nick took while facing Skinny Malone. Nora still blames Mac for that one…

     Nick holds the skeletal hand up and flexes the thin metal fingers. They are freshly shined and reflect light as they move smoothly.

     “I told you it was an easy fix.” He says, admiring his own repairs. “Did you ditch the merc?” 

     “Not yet. He said he had something to take care of. He’ll be back tomorrow.” 

     Nick frowns and lowers his hand. “Listen, kid. After the Skinny Malone incident, I looked him up. There’s not a lot of info on him, but I know he’s from the Capitol Wasteland and that he used to run with the Gunners. The kind of person you’ve gotta be to get in that gang…I just don’t know if you should trust him.”

     “I hear you, but he saved my life at least three times already, and he left the Gunners.” Nora finds herself defending Mac without much thought.

     Nick shakes his head slowly, “Just know that you’ve got real friends that’ll help you. Me and Piper. And not for caps.” 

     “I know, and thank you, but…I do trust him. I told him to go in Fort Hagen. I told him to leave, but he didn’t go. He helped me kill Kellogg…” She trails off.  

     “That’s his job, Nora. I’m just warning you that whatever caps you paid him will run out…and his true loyalty may surface.” 

     Nora remembers her conversation with Mac earlier: _But don’t flatter yourself, lady. You’re paying me to keep you alive. That’s all it was._ The whole point of keeping Mac around is to travel with someone who’s not invested. Who won’t be missed. But Nick is probably right. The mercenary hasn’t shared a shred of personal information. The extent of what Nora has noticed is: He learned how to kill at age ten, he likes heights, he used to work for some crazy mere-gang, he’s from the “Capital Wasteland,” he disappears at night, enjoys killing, is a goddamn loose cannon, and is possibly an alcoholic. What happens when her caps aren't enough and he finally does leave her to die? 

 _God, what the hell do you see in him?_ She asks herself. 

     Then she remembers that moment in Fort Hagen…when he refused to leave and she saw something in his eyes that said he wasn’t there for the money. Something that burned, understood, and made her less afraid. 

     “I hope you’re wrong about him.” Nora whispers and starts continuing down the stairs. 

 

     A short, brunette woman in a lab coat greets Nick as they walk in. “Hello, Valentine.” The doctor glances at Nora while shaking Nick’s hand, “I take it this isn’t a social call?”

     Nick looks at Nora. She realizes she has no idea what Dr. Amari can help them with. 

     “Uh, you better explain this one, Nick.”

     “We need a memory dig, Amari, but it’s not going to be easy. The perp, Kellogg, is already cold on the floor.” 

     Nora realizes how ridiculous this sounds. 

     The doctor sighs heavily, “Are you mad? Putting aside the fact that you’re asking me to defile a corpse, you do realize that the memory stimulus requires an intact, _living_ brain to function?” 

     “There has to be something you can do,” Nora cuts in, “This _corpse_ killed my husband and kidnapped my son!” 

     Nick rests his skeletal metal hand on her shoulder to steady her and explains to Amari, “This dead brain had inside knowledge to the Institute, Amari. The biggest scientific secret of the Commonwealth.” The doctor’s eyes widen at that. “You need this, and so do we.” Nick urges. 

     Amari crosses her arms and taps her fingers, considering. “Fine.” She finally says through a sigh. “I’ll take a look, but no guarantees. Do you…have it with you?”

     “I have _something._ ” Nora says, handing Amari the metal apparatus that she blew out of Kellogg’s skull. There’s still dried blood caked on the wires. 

     “What is this? This isn't a brain. This is…wait…” She holds the apparatus under a desk light and turns it over in her gloved hands. “This is the hippocampus, and attach to it…A neural interface?” 

     Nick shifts his weight stiffly. “Those circuits look awfully familiar…” he mutters. 

     “As they should.” Amari nods, “All Institute technology has similar mechanics.” She turns from examining Kellogg’s brain. “Mr. Valentine is an older generation synth, but Institute technology being what it is…the implant could fit him.”

     “ _Fit him_?” Nora echoes.

     “It’s an…incredible risk to take. I’ll have to wire something into his brain…” 

     Nora’s heart sinks. There’s no way she’ll let Nick risk his life for this. She needs him around to help, even if only to keep her sane.

      They both look at Nick, who is nodding his head. “Well, I’m well past the warranty date anyway.”

     “Nick, no. I can’t ask you to do this.” 

     “Don’t worry about me, kid. I have my own beef with the Institute. I want this information just as much as you do.” The intensity of his glowing yellow eyes tell Nora that there’s no use arguing. He’s doing this on his own terms. 

     “Thank you.” She says with clear sincerity.

     “You can thank me when we’ve found your son, all right?” He turns to Amari. “Let’s do this.” 

    “Take a seat.” Amir motions to a chair next to of those glass domed, sleeping, drug-pod things. She begins wiring Kellogg’s neural interface to the back of Nick’s head. Nora feels a little squeamish. 

     “I need you to keep taking, Mister Valentine. Any slight change in you cognitive functions could be dire. Are you feeling different?” 

     Nick cringes his face, “There’s a lot of flashes…and static…I can’t make sense of any of it, doc.” 

     “That’s what I was afraid of.” Amari straightens up from working on Nick’s brain and speaks to Nora. “There’s an encrypted lock on the memory implant.”

     “Is Nick gunna be okay?” 

     “Yes, the connections appear to be stable. Hopefully, they will remain so when we unplug the implant when we’re done.” 

     “ _Hopefully?_ ” Nora is liking this less and less. 

     “The problem now is that the memory encryption is too strong for one mind…but if we use two…?”

     “Well, what can I do to help?”  
     “I’ll load both you and Mister Valentine in the memory loungers and run your cognitive functions in parallel. His brain will host while your consciousness drives through whatever memories we can find.”

     “Okay. Load me in, doc.”  

 

     The pod is surprisingly more comfortable than it looks, but given the current situation, Nora doesn’t allow herself to enjoy it the soft cushions and cozy glass dome. 

     Amari talks as the glass lowers, closing Nora in the pod, “Initiating brain-wave migration between the transplant and the host.” Nora feels a chill down her spine as the glass dome latches closed around her, an eerily similar feeling to the cry-pod in Vault 111. “I’ll load you into the strongest memories I can find. They might not be stable…hold on.”   

     Her closes her eyes, but her vision doesn't go black. She sees pulses of purple and blue light branching through the darkness like an electrical storm. She feels a tingling from her temples to her spine. 

     Her mind comes unhinged with fragmented voices and memories.

     She hears the muttering voices of Kellogg and Nate swirl together in a sickening song. 

     A shattered memory of Nate’s voice forces itself to the surface of her hijacked mind, _The entire world unraveled. Peace became a distant memory…and I am afraid…war…War never changes._

 _No, no, Nate…it never changes…_ It murders and destroys and rips families apart. It makes good men do bad things and gives bad men the means to conceal their evil nature. … _And I am afraid._

      Nora doesn’t hear Kellogg’s voice drown out Nate’s, she _feels_ it. She feels his voice take over and become hers—she shares his words—she’s in his head. She’s no longer listening, but speaking in Kellogg’s voice. 

_The thing about happiness is that you only know you had it when it’s gone. I mean, you may think to yourself that you’re happy…But you don’t really believe it. You focus on the petty bullshit, or the next job, or whatever…It’s only looking back by comparison with what comes after that you really understand, that’s what happiness felt like._

      Nora feels Kellogg’s memories unfold before her. She’s not just watching—she can feel and hear and speak…and remember. 

      Kellogg was just a little boy. His ribs were bruised by his father’s fists. His mother wanted him to kill the man, and he should have, but he was just a scared little boy…when he ran away with the revolver that Nora would use to end his own life.

      He was running. And always running from the guilt of running. 

Then, he remembers Sarah. 

_I was the worst thing that ever happened to her. If she’d never met me…she maybe would’ve hooked up with someone who didn’t kill people for a living. Probably happier. Almost certainly lived longer._

Now he remembers Mary. 

_Whatever made me think a guy like me should have a daughter…no. I never deserved her. Not for one second._

He remembers becoming alone. 

     The mocking voice creeps through the walls. “ _Just so you know, Kellogg, they died like dogs…And you weren’t there to help them.”_ The feeling of absolute hate and vengeance runs through their shared consciousness. 

Back to running. Always running from the guilt of running. The guilt of surviving. 

He remembers the work helping him forget. 

_There was always a job for someone like me. There was always someone that wanted someone else dead. Sometimes just roughed up, but dead was usually what they wanted._

_I didn't care where I was going. Mostly heading East. Just getting as far away from San Francisco as I could, maybe._

Finally, the farthest away he could get, the Institute.   
_I ended up in the Commonwealth. I kind of ran out of road, plus I’d come to terms with life. I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to get mixed up caring about other people again. I was me against the world…and the world had it coming._

_I didn’t find the Institute. They found me. They had the resources I needed and I had the expertise they needed. Ended up turing into a permanent arrangement which suited me just fine._

He forgot Sarah and Mary. He forced himself to believe he’d only ever been alone. 

He remembers the vault.

_It wasn’t usual for anyone from the Institute to come along on a mission, so this one stood out. I didn’t know then who we were grabbing from the vault. Of course, neither did they. Not really._

_It was better this way. Better than taking his kid and leaving him alive. I know._

_I’m glad I didn’t have to kill the kid. I’m not saying I haven’t done it, but I never liked to. Yeah, I guess it did remind me of…her. I’m a cold hearted bastard for sure, but the kid reminded me…I’m still human._

_I knew it was a mistake leaving the mother alive. I understood that kind of revenge. No one better. I was cocky enough to think I could handle some prewar vault dweller if she somehow got thawed out…_

_At least now I know those institute bastards will soon get what’s coming to them too. If she could take me out, they won’t be able to hide from her for long._

The last time he saw Shaun.

_It wasn’t my idea to set-up in the middle of Diamond City with the kid. It was some part of the elaborate plan of the old man’s. The kid was one of the old man’s pet projects, so here we were. Me and the kid like a happy little family. I ended up kind of liking it—A reminder of what my life could have been if things turned out differently. But there’s no going back._

_I know now that we were bait for our vault-dweller friend. The timing couldn’t have been an accident. That’s not how the old man works. I wonder if he outsmarted me in the end, another loose end to tie up._

_Anyway, the courser gave me a job, the only one I never finished: To find some rogue Institute scientist in the Glowing Sea. Brian Virgil._

_Then he relayed with the kid back to the Institute._

_Bye, kid. Alone stopped bothering me a long time ago._

 

     The memories start sparking on and off, purple and blue currents of electricity lining through darkness. Then, Nora’s mind is her own once again. 

     She opens her eyes slowly and lets them adjust to the light. The glass dome is rising over her memory lounger. 

     “Slow movements, okay? I don’t know what side effects you may have. No one’s ever done this procedure before…” Amari eases Nora out of the lounger. 

     Her mind begins racing with questions and she steadies herself against a counter. 

     She saw Shaun for sure…but he was older. Nine or ten? _Oh god, I’m too late._ She thinks about the children she’s heard of in the wasteland: Mac learned to kill at ten, Sheng living alone since eight, Kellogg left home at ten…all of them alone. 

     “Are you…ready to talk about what happened in there? What’s the next step to finding your son?” Amari asks tentatively, noticing Nora’s pale face and cold sweat. 

     Nora’s head is still spinning and she grasps desperately for the next step. Who is the “old man?” What does Kellogg mean, Shaun is one of his “ _pet projects_?” And the courser _fucking teleported_ into the Institute. How do you find the entrance to a place with no entrance? The rogue scientist, Brian Virgil—he escaped the Institute. 

     Nora tries to speak, but realizes her mouth is bone dry. She clears her throat with a dry cough, “There’s no entrance to the Institute. They teleport in and out.” Amari’s eyebrows shoot up. “There’s an escaped scientist in the Glowing Sea, Brian Virgil. He has to know how to get back in.” 

     “Teleportation? A rogue scientist? This changes everything! He could answer all sorts of questions…but the Glowing Sea? That’s impossible. No one would risk going there. Not even to hide.” 

     “That’s where I’m going next.” 

     “You don’t understand. The Glowing Sea is a crater—ground zero of a nuclear detonation. If the radiation alone doesn’t kill you, the radscorpions, bloodbugs, and deathclaws certainly will. Going there is suicide.” 

     “There has to be a way. Virgil is my only shot at getting in the Institute.”

     Amari trots over to a cabinet and open the top drawer. She is bouncing with excited energy from the knew information. She brings a small pill bottle to Nora. “I know there’s no stopping you. The most I can offer you is anti-radiation drugs and advice: Find yourself radiation resistant clothing or power armor, and don’t spend a second longer in there than you need to be.” 

     “Thanks, doctor.” Nora says, taking the pill bottle labeled, _Rad-X._

     Amari gently takes Nora’s arm and helps her stand. “I unplugged Mister Valentine while you were waking up. He’s waiting for you upstairs.” She says. 

     Nora feels a tad guilty for not asking if he’s ok right away, but she’s a little overwhelmed at the moment. “Is he okay?” 

     “He seems to be functioning normally, albeit a little worn out, and anxious to know what your next plan is.” 

     Nora thanks the doctor again and head up the stairs to meet Nick.

     He is sitting on a red velvet couch near the exit of the memory den. His shoulders are stiff, his posture square. His face is blank. 

    “Nick, you feeling ok?” Nora asks cautiously. 

     His head turns and his yellow-ringed eyes meet hers. 

    When he speaks, his voice is not his own. 

    Nora’s blood runs cold. 

    It’s Kellogg’s voice, “Hope you got what you were looking for inside my head. Heh. I was right. Should’ve killed you when you were on ice.” The voice sounds like its playing through an old speaker. 

    “Nick?!” Nora holds her hands out to shake his shoulders, but she hesitates. Her hands hover above his tan coat. “Wha—What did you say?” 

    Nick shakes his head and brightens his cap. His voice comes out normally now, his own. “What are you talking about, kid? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

    Nora’s is questioning whether she’s lost her mind. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

    “Peachy. Now, where’re you headed next?” 

    “The Glowing Sea.” Nora says flatly, suddenly feeling exhausted. 

    Nick stares up at her from the couch. “Right. You gunna let me tag along this time?” 

    Nora doesn’t meet his eye’s. She’s watching her fingers spin Nate’s wedding ring. Kellogg’s voice repeats in her head: _I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to get mixed up caring about other people again. I was me against the world…and the world had it coming._

    “I’m going to do this alone, Nick.” She answers. 

 


	16. Not This Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for two things:   
> 1) I am late updating because extreme introvert + unavoidable social interaction = writer's block, ya know?   
> 2) This is a short, and probably shitty chapter, but I wanted to update just so you know I'm not dead and haven't abandoned this story. 
> 
> Anywho, more updates will come and will hopefully be better!

MacCready - Goodneighbor - October 9, 2287

     It’s mid-morning when they reach Goodneighbor. The day warmed considerably during the walk over and Nora has returned Mac’s coat—or what’s left of it after years of wasteland travel. Mac gently runs his hand over the burn on his shoulder, the singed flesh underneath the tan fabric sends annoying sparks of pain through his arm. His fingers trace the edge of the torn seam around his arm. The missing sleeve is a constant reminder of that night five years ago…when Lucy died, and Mac used tore the sleeve in the early hours of the morning to use a ternmiquette for his bleeding leg. The damn leg still gives him grief. 

     Mac glances at Daisy’s shop as he follows Nora into Goodneighbor’s square. The ghoul meets his gaze and she waves him over. Mac’s heart skips a beat. It’s probably news from the Capital Wasteland. He dreads every update and the possibility that this letter is the one that says his son has died. He nods to Daisy in acknowledgment. 

     Mac takes his cap off and runs fingers through his hair. He can’t conceal the pit in his stomach. 

     “Valentine said to meet him in the Memory Den.” Nora says, walking ahead of him. 

     Mac stops walking and Nora turns to him. Her expression is confused. 

     “Hey, can I sit out on this one? I need to take the day. There’s something I gotta do.” He says, trying to sound nonchalant. 

     Her head tilts slightly and her mouth curves down in confusion. “Oh, uh sure. Nick and I will just be checking out Kellogg’s head…thingy. So I don’t think anything life threatening is involved, though I’m not sure what to expect anymore…What is it you need to do?” 

     Mac’s tone is cold. “Nothing for you to worry about.” He avoids eye contact. He knows that Nora can read his eyes. He feels her doing it while he reads hers. But this…he doesn't want her to know about Duncan, so his eyes scan the streets of Goodneighbor while he talks.

     “Hey, if you need something, you can tell me. You’ve saved my life enough to earn a favor.” Her hand reaches out as if to touch his arm, but falls back to her side. If she stared at his face even harder, she’s burn a hole. She want’s access to his eyes—he can feel it. She wants to read him. 

     He hesitates and meets her stare with a brief pause. 

    Like a wave crashing between them, Mac feels the rush of desire to let this woman understand him the way he understands her. He wants to let her in. He wants to help her. He wants to let her help him…

     But he can’t. Not _this._  

     Because this? He deserves. He thinks about Lucy…he blames himself for not caring enough to save her. Of course, Duncan doesn’t deserve what’s happened, but then…Mac doesn’t deserve Duncan. He never did. Not for one second. 

     “Let’s just agree to keep our shi— _crap_ to ourselves from now on. You don’t need to worry about me, and I don’t need to know anymore about you.” 

    Nora shrugs and nods at the same time, as if still convincing herself of something. “Okay. Agreed. See you tomorrow?” She finally says. 

     “Yeah, morning.” His voice is quiet. 

    “Ok. Be careful, Mac.” 

    Mac’s eyes widen involuntarily. There she goes again… _caring_ about what happens to him… He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he nods, then turns and strides into Daisy’s Discounts to face the news in the letter.

    Mac is met with Daisy’s harsh, ghouled voice as he rounds the entrance to her shop, “Morning, hun. How’re you holding up?” 

    “Fine…” 

    She gives him a unconvinced glare. 

    “Whatya have for me, Dais?” Mac sighs, walking up to the counter. 

    “Nothing from the Capital.” She says. 

    Mac’s eyebrows raise. He doesn’t know whether he’s disappointed or relieved. 

    Daisy continues. “But you’re not gunna like it…A couple of Winlock’s regular assholes stopped by a few hours ago, looking for you. They gave me this in case I saw you,” Daisy retrieves an crumpled peace of yellow paper and hands it to Mac. 

    He unfolds the letter and sees the Gunnar’s Skull emblem, followed by a messily scribed message: 

 

_We know about the job._

_There’s a Gunner camp near Boston Common._

_Come alone._

_Or the vault dweller dies._

 

    Mac drops the paper on the counter and meets Daisy’s black eyes. 

 _Crap._ He wishes he could let himself think up a worse word. The he knew it wouldn’t take the Gunners long to catch wind of his job.

     “Did you read it?” He asks. 

    “Of course.” Daisy gives a coy, yet sympathetic, grin. 

    “If the vault dweller asks, don’t tell her where I went.” 

    Daisy nods. 

     “Thanks, Daisy.” He says, then strides out of the shop to make his way to the VIP lounge in the Third Rail. He has a stash of caps hidden in there—All that he has managed to save between renting rooms, food, supply for Duncan, ammo, and booze.   
He knows it won’t be enough to pay the Gunners off, but he has to try. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

      Mac stands at the entrance of a small, loosely barricaded Gunner base between Goodneighbor and Boston Common. He is surrounded by Gunners with his hands raised on either side of his head. He’s clearly outnumbered—five to one. 

     Mac recognizes the Gunner standing directly in front of him; he’s a friend of Winlock’s. _Greg? Graham? Gage? Something that starts with a G…_  

     A big, bald, laser rifle-wielding goon is to G’s right, his big dumb face lacking intelligent expression and a light ‘A-’ is tattooed on his thick forhead, his blood type. There’s a tall, slim Gunner to G’s left and two more on either side of Mac, close and big enough to restrain him before he could take anyone out, but despite their size, numbers, and itchy trigger fingers, Mac’s not afraid of them. Not yet. He knows that he’s faster and smarter. So, it’s easy for him to work that crooked smile and blue-eyed charm.

    G stands with his arms folded and his shoulders squared. His mouth is turned down in a permanent frown that deepens the aging creases on either side of his thick, scruffy chin.  

     “We didn’t expect you to actually show up.” G says. His voice tries to be deep and condescending, but doesn't achieve the same effect as Winlock’s, who is nowhere to be seen. Mac assumes Winlock sent these guys to do his dirty work while he and Barnes hang out at the Mass Pike Interchange, drinking, playing cards, and hiring chem-whores.

    “What can I say? You got my attention.” Mac says, “I’m here. So why don’t you tell me why you planned this little tea party?” 

    “You know, you should show me some respect, boy. Did you forget my boss pulled your dying, bleeding ass out of the Wasteland to begin with?” 

    “I owe Winlock _nothing._ ” Mac spits the response immediately. Winlock has enjoyed hanging that fact over Mac’s head since that day, five years ago. The day Lucy died…

    G tilts his chin up and raises a challenging brow. “Anyway, that’s not why you’re here.” His tone remains flat and impatient. He sighs heavily, “You gunna make me draw a map, MacCready? You’re operating _in the Commonwealth._ Gunner territory. Winlock warned you, that ain’t gunna fly.” 

    Mac rolls his eyes. “I get it. I do…but I can’t leave.” 

_Not while the Duncan’s cure is in Med-Tek._

    Mac reaches for the sagging pouch on his belt and the big bald Gunner holds his rifle towards Mac’s head. “Easy there…” He moves his hands slower and removes the pouch of caps. “I can't leave, but I have 200 caps. That’s enough to cover a good job, so just take the money and leave me be. It’s a fair trade. You know it is.”

    “How can I make you understand this? We don’t want your money, MacCready. We told you to leave, and you didn’t. My orders are to eliminate the competition.  Permanently. So…” He acknowledges the big baldy with the blood-type tattoo. “Bill? Kill him.” 

    Mac makes a move for his side arm, but the two Gunners behind him grab his arms and hold him still.  Bill raises his laser rifle, but G places a hand on the barrel to stop him.

    “Oh Bill, take your time.” G adds through a sinister grin, which merely turns his permanent frown into a straight line. 

    Bill lets out a deep giggle and walks up to Mac. Bill stabs a stubby thumb into Mac’s fresh shoulder wound from the fight with Kellogg and Mac’s knees buckle against the intense burning. Mac inhales sharply through his teeth, but the breath is cut off when Bill’s fat fist impacts with the side of his face. Mac taste blood. 

    “You son of a…” Mac mutters through blood. 

    G smiles and turns to walk away, then abruptly stops and comes back over to place a hand on Bill’s shoulder. 

    He leans in close to Mac’s face. So close, Mac can smell his sour teeth through the taunting whispers, “Oh, and your Vault Dweller girlfriend? We’re gunna kill her anyway…and it won’t be quick. Don’t come across a piece of ass like that often out here…” He whistles softly.   
“I just thought you should know, before you die, you failed your last job. Bad luck with women, huh?” Mac feels sick. Not only did Winlock enjoy reminding the Gunner’s that he ‘saved’ Mac, he also took every chance he could to announce Mac’s failure to save his wife…and the thought of Nora in the slimy hands of a pack of Gunners sends his stomach twisting further. Mac scowls at G with fire in his eyes, but he can’t manage a response. 

     “Take his caps when you’re done, Bill.” G laughs and walks away, motioning for another Gunner to follow him, leaving only the two men holding Mac and Bill to finish the job. 

_Still outnumbered._

    Bill punches Mac in the jaw again, sending another red gush from the inside of the young man’s swelling cheek.

     “Winlock and Barnes should’ve done this five years ago.” Bill mocks. 

    He throws another punch that hits Mac in the stomach. 

    Mac closes his eyes and holds his breath for through the next punch. He steadies his reflexes for the opportunity to respond. 

    The next series of events takes place in a matter of seconds, but to the reflexes of the sharpest shooter in the commonwealth, it’s more than enough time. 

     Bill raises his laser rifle against Mac’s head. The Gunner to holding Mac’s right shoulder scowls at Bill for putting the gun so close to him, and he loosens his grip to lean away from the inevitable blood splatter. 

    Mac takes the brief opportunity and spits blood in Bill’s eyes and knees the guy on his left shoulder in the crotch. Bill curses and reaches to clear his eyes. The crotch-blown Gunner groans and doubles over.  

    Mac unholsters his sidearm and sends a bullet through the remaining Gunner’s guts, and fires another into the doubled over Gunner, leaving Bill, sill half-blinded by blood, left.  

    Mac sends Bill to the dirt with the butt of his pistol, hoping to knock him out and leave without wasting any more bullets on these… _jerks_. 

   An alarm sounds from inside the small Gunner base and Mac hears the whirling of assaultron blades from behind the barricades. 

   Bills sputters dirt from his mouth and holds a hand on the back of his bald head, where Mac’s pistol struck.  Apparently his fat skull is thicker than Mac thought.

    Bill curses and reaches for his rifle. 

    Mac scoops up his pouch of caps and is already starting to run. He turns around and fires, but the bullet lands in Bill’s shoulder, he drops the rifle, but Mac knows leaving him alive is a mistake.  But there’s no choice to go back and finish him off. Mac can’t take on a Gunner base with assaultrons his own, beaten and bloody. 

    He hears Bill’s furious yell behind him, “We’re gunna fucking kill you for this—and that vault-bitch! You’re both dead, MacCready!”

_Dammit. When Winlock hears about this, all bets are off. He’ll send an army…and Nora will be dead because of me._

_No._

_Not this time._

     There’s no way he’s going to let this goddamn wasteland eat up the most undeserving, honest, kind, and…and beautiful woman he’s seen in his whole goddamn life. _Not this time. Not by his fault._

    He has to find Nora. Now. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

    An hour later, Mac bursts through the doors of the memory den, no attempt to hide his urgency. Nick turns, started, from chatting with a woman on a red sofa, who shot up to a sitting position at Mac’s entrance, her eyes are wide and confused. 

    “Valentine!” Mac yells, running over to the detective. “Where’s Nora?” He has to resist the urge to grab him by the coat to hurry the answer out of him.

    “Calm down, kid. What happened to you?"

    "I need to find Nora!"

     "She left about a half hour ago.” Valentine’s voice is short. It’s been clear to Mac for a while that Nick doesn’t approve of Nora’s choice in traveling companion. 

    “What? Where did she go?” 

     “She’s adamant that she travels alone from now on––I don’t like it either. She didn’t say where she’s going.”

     Mac shoves a hand through his hair, then looks up to drill his blue stare intensely into Nick’s synthetic yellow irises. “She’s not alone—not for long. If I don’t find her first, she’s dead.” 

    “What are you talking about? Who’s after her?” There’s a hint of anger in Nick’s voice, something that says ‘I knew this was coming.’

    “The Gunners–– She’s in danger and it’s my fault, Nick.” Mac can’t hide the pained guilt that shakes in his voice. 

    Nick’s skeletal metal hand grasps his hat and he paces in an agitated circle, then faces Mac,“Goddammit, boy! Betting your own life wasn’t enough? You had to go and loose her’s too?” It’s the most aggression Mac has ever heard in the synth’s voice. “She said she’s going to find some rogue scientist in the Glowing Sea. My best guess is she’s on her way to Sanctuary to borrow the minutemen’s power armor.”  
“ _Crap—_ She won’t make it there alone.” 

    “She left only a half hour ago. She’s probably not out of the city yet.” Nick unholsters his pistol and checks his ammo. 

     “Thanks, Nick.” Mac manages to force out before turning toward the exit.

     He hears the detective make a move to follow behind him. 

     “Wait. I’m coming too.” Nick says.

    Mac stops him by shoving a heavy palm into his chest, “No. Im faster alone…If you really need to help, go to Diamond City and pick up a hazmat. Meet us in Sanctuary. I can keep the Gunners off her, but we’re gunna need all the help we can get in the Glowing Sea.” 

      Then he strides out of the Memory Den, leaving Nick standing in angry confusion, without the chance to respond. 

 


	17. Pistol Packin' Mama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rollercoaster of feels.

Nora - Commonwealth - October 9, 2287

 

     Nora thought killing Kellogg would bring her one step closer to finding Shaun. In reality, all it’s done is confirm that Shaun is in the one place no-one can find—The Institute—and she is ten years too late. 

     She hoped, at the very least, that sending a bullet through the bastard’s brain would put an end to the reoccurring nightmares that appear every time she closes her eyes. But ever since experiencing his life in the Memory Den, she can’t get the mechanically layered voice of Kellogg out of her head. Over and over again, on a loop: 

_The kid was one of the old man’s pet projects…Me and the kid like a happy little family…A reminder of what my life could have been if things turned out differently._

_But there’s no going back…_

 

     It has been five full days since Nora left Vault 111 and began tearing through the Commonwealth in search of Shaun. She has traded out her torn up Vaukt-suit for some combat-style pants, a plain blue shirt, and pieces of armor layered over from Raiders, synths, and a shoulder peace from Kellogg. 

     Despite her upgraded wastelander gear, she is feeling the full weight of her sleep deprivation, the wounds from her near-death fights with humans, synths, and ghouls, and she is aware of the empty feeling in her core that longs to be with her baby boy, who is now ten years grown, and her husband, who is ten years dead. She doesn’t want to think that she and Shaun should have died with Nate two-hundred years ago…but as she walks alone through the quiet city ruins under a radioactive haze, she has never felt so alone. And so afraid. 

    She thinks, with guilt, of Mac. Guilty for leaving without telling him, and even more guilty for thinking that he cares…or for wanting him to.  

_Shit. I don’t even know his full name…_

    The city ruins are eerily quiet, yet Nora is tense with paranoia at the possible presence of raiders, ghouls, synths, or any other manner of irradiated beasts behind every shadowed alley. 

    Her hands are shaking.

    She remembers Mac telling her to calm her heart rate and control her breathing so that she can aim better, hit targets from a distance, and conserve ammo. _Ignore what isn’t essential._

    She tries to take deep breaths as she walks, but the evening silence of the ruins is thick and imposing. _How do you drown out silence?_

    Kellogg’s voice creeps back into her unraveling mind: 

    … _I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to get mixed up caring about other people again. It was me against the world…and the world had it coming…._

    Nora rubs her eyes in an effort to hold herself together. She turns her wrist over and examines her Pip Boy, running a finger over the ‘Play’ button and glancing at the spine of the “Hi Honey!” holotape. She hasn’t played it since that night in the dirty hut with Mac, after they killed Kellogg. 

    She just needs to hear Nate’s voice. To remind her that _there’s no going back._

 

    The old tape plays with the same ancient, scratchy audio as the first time she heard it. She plays the tape on a low volume as she makes her way through the Boston ruins. Hearing Nate’s and baby Shaun’s voices…it’s not much. But it helps. 

    The truth is, she doesn’t want to travel alone—being alone scares the shit out of her, but after experiencing Kellogg’s life, seeing what this world does to families, and the fear of wanting to get close to Mac…she can’t that life happen. 

   This isn’t the world she wanted, but _there’s no going back._  

 

     As if on cue, the voices of a group of Raiders echo around the crumbling corner of a building ahead. Dogmeat’s hackles raise and he stalks forward in a low trot.  Nora switches the Pip Boy off just as Nate’s scratchy recorded voice reminds her, “…everything we do no, matter how hard, we do it for our family––“ 

     Nora takes a deep breath, her hands are quivering around Kellogg’s pistol. She drowns out the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. 

     “Hold, Dogmeat.” Nora whispers to him as they peak around the corner of the building, careful not to shuffle the crumbled concrete all over the street. 

     There are three Raiders: one woman, wielding an aged machete; and two men; both with crude pipe-pistols. They are standing in a circle over the fresh body of a young scavver girl. 

     “The bitch didn’t even have caps!” The woman raider whines, sliding the young girl’s limp arm against her side with a heavy leather boot. 

     “Yeah, but she had two packs of smokes!” One of the men announces, his voice is high and greedy. He holds the old cigarette packs close to his face, then pins them protectively against his chest when the other man reaches for them.  

     Nora feels a surge of pity for the young corpse, but the feeling is quickly overcome by the disgust she feels for the raiders. 

 _It’s me against the world, and the world has it coming,_ she thinks. 

     Nora pats Dogmeat’s side and releases him with a, “Free!” The shepherd pounces forward with a deep, aggressive growl. 

     Dogmeat already has one man by the arm by the arm when Nora takes her first shot, which sends the other man to the dirt, as the .44 hits him in the chest. 

     The remaining man swings Dogmeat violently, screaming for the woman to “Get it off me! Fuck! Get it off!” Dogmeat responds with a growl and twists his head to tear at the man’s flesh. 

    “Hold still!” the woman commands over the man’s screaming. She is searching for a clear swing so she doesn’t lop off the man’s arm along with the dog. 

    The woman with the machete curses loudly and swings at Dogmeat. Nora’s adrenaline is through the roof. She fires a the woman stopping her from hitting Dogmeat, but the bullet hisses past the woman’s head, a near miss. 

     Nora fires at the woman again leaning into the shot, like Mac showed her. 

     Killshot. 

_Thank you, MacCready._

 

     The man kicks Dogmeat beneath the ribs, which loosen Dogma’s grip enough for him to pry the dog off his arm. He shuffles around for the spare gun in his holster, but Dogmeat grabs him by the calf and drags him to the dirt with his now dead friends. The man lets out another cry of pain. 

     Nora runs over and pries the woman’s rusty machete out of her freshly loosening grip. _Ammo is a precious commodity in this world._

    She holds the writhing raider down with her boot and sends the machete through his screaming chest. He sputters to a stop and blood seeps from the hole as she removes the thick blade. 

 

     Nora stands for a moment, stunned by her own savagery. 

     Dogmeat returns to her heel and licks at the man’s blood on her fingertips. 

     She remember’s Mac’s face the first time she saw him snipe. 

     Nora watched his shoulder roll back in effortless synchronization, absorbing the recoil. He fires with muscle memory. The corner of his mouth pulled back in a grin at the killshot.

 _He enjoys killing,_ she thought. 

     Nora looks down at the shepherd staring happily up at her, blood plastered around his mouth, and she sees the blood-soaked machete in her hand. 

Her hands aren't shaking.

     “We make a good team, huh boy?” She pats Dogmeat between the ears. 

     And the corner of her mouth tugs up ever so slightly into a coy smile. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

     An hour later, the sun is beginning to set and cast a faded orange glow over the city. The buildings’ shadows and dark alleys grow with deepened obscurity and the sound of distant gunfire and violent howls echo off every wall without rhythm. 

    Nora was hoping to make it out of the city before dark, but the ruins make it hard to find the paths that she once knew. The thought of navigating the city in the dark, alone, is terrifying. 

     Nora knows she will have to find a place to wait the night out. 

    Judging by the amount of daylight, she has around three hours to find such a place. 

 

     Nora walks further through the city until the sunset has darkened to a dim amber glow. Most buildings are boarded up or marked inhospitable with raider emblems painted in the entrances. Upon entering a few abandoned apartment buildings, Nora was met each time with the impossibly foul smell of decaying radioactive waste. 

     With the evening growing darker, Nora’s ability to find her way out of the city is quickly diminishing. At this point, she is merely relying on following Dogmeat through the safest alleys.

     Nora’s mind has been quiet, that is without the constant looping of Nate and Kellogg’s memories in her head, since the fight with the raiders…but as the city grown darker, her thoughts are imageless and contain only the ringing sound of gunfire and shouts of pain. 

     This is not better. 

     Her tense heart nearly ceases as Dogmeat halts abruptly in front of her. He stands before the entrance of a long, thin alley. They are surrounded on either side by rubble. Dogmeat leans forward on his front paws and fold his ears back against his head, staring into the darkness. 

     Nora hits the flashlight button on her Pip Boy, and the screen illuminates the alley with a green glow. 

     At first, she thinks the alley is clear, but then notices the hunched figures laying motionless on the ground. A pile of corpses lie discarded in the alley. 

     Alerted by the green light, the closest body huffs, blowing ashy gravel away from it’s ancient lips. 

_Not corpses—Feral ghouls._

     She can’t tell how many there are. 

     Nora can feel her heartbeat through every inch of her body. She lefts her feet silently and starts moving back out of the alley. Dogmeat follows as quiet as possible. 

     The closest ghoul drags its reanimating arms across the dusty ground. The sound of gravel grinding against concrete causes other ghouls to stir. Before Nora has her pistol out, the alley is alive with raspy purrs and growls. 

     The ghouls are up and coming at her with impossible speed. Nora fires her pistol without aiming; the light from the Pip Boy on her wrist swinging with her pistol, causing a strobe-effect. 

    The irradiated mass of decaying ghouls trip and fling themselves on top of one another. Nora counts nine of them between brief steadinesses of light.  

    She manages to send several down before they are within striking distance. 

    She catches Dogmeat out of the corner of her eye, tearing at the throat of what looks like a grey, withered old woman. 

     Kollogg’s .44 is out of ammo and Nora is swinging off delicate limbs with a rusty machete, but _damnit, can’t tell how many there are._

     She feels Dogmeat’s blood-soaked coat fly past her as he leaps for another throat, then the wind is knocked out of her by the reckless weight of a male ghoul, who flings her back up against the greasy brick wall of the alley. 

     She holds the ghoul off by bracing the machete against his throat with both hands, right one on the handle, the left against the back, blunted edge of the blade. The thin, rusted metal digs into her palm as the ghoul presses toward her. She yelps through her clamped jaw. 

     The green light from her wrist illuminates the ghoul’s close face. He is gaunt and his skin is dark and grooved, like most ghouls, but he is small, thin, and lanky. This was a boy no older than thirteen when the bombs fell. 

     And his eyes…

     His eyes aren’t black like most ghouls. Not completely. They are a muddy grey with black splotches. They used to be blue. 

     Nora feels tears developing as her muscles scream against his force. 

     She hears the hungry grunts of more ghouls echo from further down the alley. Dogmeat’s growl is interrupted with a yelp as a ghoul claws at his hind legs while he works at the throat of another. 

     The boy-ghoul doesn’t cease his progress as the rusty edge splits his skin and dark, stinking blood begins seeping from his throat. He leans further into her, snapping his teeth. She swallows hard, willing the sick in her stomach back down and eases the machete deeper into the ghoul’s neck.

     A sharp whistle echoes through the alley and a ghoul clawing at Dogmeat drops dead. She hardly notices through the panicked tears and weakening arms, and the noise has spurned the boy-ghoul into further aggression. 

    She is full-on weeping. 

    This might be the end. 

    His eyes were blue. She can tell. They were blue, but that’s all she can see. There’s no more light, no more humanity. He’s been dead for a very, very long time. She blinks fast through her tears to stare into them as she presses the blade against his throat with all of her strength. Her arms shake and strain against the effort, and irradiated blood spills from his throat and covers her hands in a thick, warm goo.

    His furious growls become a sputtering gurgle against the thick blood pouring from his mouth and she watches the remaining color fade from his almost-dead eyes, becoming black. Her sore arm muscles relax as the boy-ghoul sinks to the ground. 

    Another series of whistling sounds fill the alley and more ghouls drop with each one. 

     Nora’s knees go slack and she slides down the brick wall behind her. She doesn’t try to fight back the tears and exhaustion. She feels Dogmeat pin himself against her side; his fur is sticky with irradiated blood; the hair on his back is bristled and his bloodied lip is curled into a harsh snarl. She buries her face in her hands and cries.

    She doesn’t notice the alley has gone quiet until she hears Dogmeat growl and a low rustling a to her side. Dogmeat’s head shoots up and his growling stops. She feels his tail wag against her and he runs off into the darkness. 

     Nora clears her eyes to see the silhouette of a man standing over her, slinging a rifle over his shoulder. 

    “MacCready…how did you…?” 

    Mac runs over with that slight limp.

    “Find you?” He asked as he pulls Nora to her feet. “It’s my job to keep you alive, remember?” She can tell he’s having to force himself to sound calm. 

    “My hero…” She teases as he eases her on her feet. The same forced-normalcy in her own voice, except she fails to hide the quiver. _How_ did _he find me?_ The question is quickly interrupted by a new one, _Why did he find me?_

    The green light reveals his face. There’s clear panic in his blue eyes, and his brows are drown together in concern. If he stared at her any harder, he’d burn a hole.

    She is suddenly overcome with the need to hug him. To bury her face in his coat and let go. She has never felt so scared and alone. 

    “You know, things would go a lot smoother if you’d stop trying to get yourself killed.” A weak half-smile tugs up the side of his mouth. 

    Nora tries to meet his false grin, but is quickly loosing the fight against falling apart. 

    “Mac, I…” The waterworks cut her off and she hides her face in her hands. 

     Mac hesitantly pulls her into a loose hug, and she allows herself to cry into his coat.  

    “I know.” He whispers. 

    “I can’t do this alone.” She finally mutters against his dampening chest. 

    “I know.” 

    There is silence for a moment. 

    She blinks up at his eyes.

    It’s not just being alone, and it’s not just that he knows that she lost her son.

    He’s saying that he _knows_ what it _feels_ like. 

   He’s saying he knows how much it hurts. 

   And Nora believes him. 

   “How…?” She asks. “ _How do you know_?” 

   He doesn’t answer.

   She doesn’t need him to. Not yet. 

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Duncan - Capital Wasteland - October 9, 2287

    His body is cold, mostly in his fingers and toes, but his ears and nose are hot. His muscles are weak and sore from feverish shivers; his chest feels tight with fluid; and his skin rough with blue blisters. 

    Duncan lays on a dirty mattress, covered by a dirtier blanket, in a cramped, rusting trailer. With blurred vision, he can see the stars through corroded holes in the trailer’s curved ceiling. He listens to the passing conversation fragments between caravan traders through the thin metal walls, but he doesn’t understand most of the Mungo talk. 

    The trailer is small and tightly packed with furniture. Old Mrs. Greta sits hunched forward in a wooden chair, holding a damp cloth to the child’s head. 

    When he sleeps, Duncan remembers when his daddy left. He doesn't know how long ago it was and he forgot to tell him when he’s coming back, but Duncan remembers it clearly; His daddy was crying and he said that he could find medicine and that he couldn’t take him along, and that Roy and Greta would take him somewhere safe…this must be that safe place, even if it doesn’t feel like it sometimes. 

   Duncan misses his daddy, but he isn’t worried. Because his dad is a super hero. A better shot than the Starlet Sniper, strong as Grognak the barbarian, and as smart as the Silver Shroud! 

   His daddy still sends stories that Greta reads, and she tells him that his daddy is trying to save him on an adventure like one of the heroes in the comics. 

    Greta’s son, Ray comes into the trailer from the caravan stop, carrying a wooden crate of supplies from the Commonwealth. He sets the crate on the floor next to Duncan’s mattress and digs out a clean stempack. 

     “Looks like your daddy struck big, Duncan!” He says to the boy, holding up the clean stempack. He leans over the boy and gently rolls up his sleeve to inject a small dose into Duncan’s shoulder. The stempacks seem to slow the diseases progression, but they no longer grant Duncan the freedom to walk. At the most, they relive some of the pressure in his lungs and make talking less painful. 

    Duncan feels the numbing-serum spread through his body and he blinks at the crate next to his mattress. 

    “Did daddy send comics?” Duncan’s voice is weak and raspy. 

    Ray pulls two crisp comics out of the crate, and meets Duncan’s smile as the child’s eyes light up. Ray examines the comics and pulls off a tattered yellow note taped to the cover of one. His smile fades as he reads the note. 

    He hands the comics to Greta, "What is it, Roy?" She asks.

    Roy reaches into the crate without answering and pulls out a faded green toy truck. 

    He smiles weakly and places the truck in Duncan's lap. 

   "Your dad says, 'Happy Birthday, D!" he smiles wide as Duncan raises his thin arms to grip the toy truck in awe. 

   “Can we read a comic before bed?” Duncan pleads, the excitement in his voice catches in his lungs and causes a series of coughs. 

   “Shh, shh…of course.” Greta says, opening one of the comics. 

   Duncan listens to Greta until sleep takes over. 

   His dreams remind him of his daddy’s tears on that day he left. They made Duncan scared and he didn't want him to go alone, so he gave his daddy the little soldier to keep him safe, and his daddy made a promise; _I’m going to be better…for you, I’m going to talk better and act better, okay? I promise, Duncan_ … _for you._

   Duncan understood even than that a promise like that is only made when you might never come back. 

 


	18. Hiatus

I felt like it's only fair to let you guys know what's going on.   
I DO plan on finishing this story, but I am in the process of moving to a different state, and I will be abroad without internet for the next month.   
If you'd like to stick around, I will be back to writing around the 31st of July.   
Life happens:/


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